The Ashleg Chronicles
by Clouded Horizon
Summary: The ongoing tale of Ashleg, the pine marten. Of his fight for acceptance in Noonvale, the war with the terrifying horde of the Owlrider, and most of all Ashleg's journey to accepting himself. COMPLETE!
1. The Traveller

The Ashleg Chronicles: Chapter One – The Traveller

In the far northern reaches of Mossflower Woods, all was peace on the fine early summer morning. Songbirds cavorted across the sky, crooning their sweet tune; late daffodils clumped among the tree roots turned their joyful faces to the sun; ants marched purposefully in the undergrowth.

Only one creature could be seen in the serene landscape, walking alone in a brown travelling cloak. He was a pine marten, as his narrow black eyes and compact, lean body told. This particular individual, however, had a hunched, haunted look about him, and his left leg had been replaced by a smooth ash-wood peg. His whole body was twisted and scarred, the testament of some agonising disfigurement in the past. But most of all, his face was the most sorry-looking aspect of the marten; furrowed beyond his seasons, thin-furred, and with an expression of mixed bitterness and anguish set clear upon it.

Ashleg the pine marten was leaving Mossflower. He'd lived and worked there for many, many seasons, but exactly two weeks ago he had decided to depart. The life of any typical vermin, serving the stronger and lording it over the undefended, had got the better of him at last. He wished now only for peace, and a quiet life until his days were ended.

The battle he was deserting was a war between the Mossflower woodlanders and the power-hungry, vengeful wildcat Tsarmina. Her father, Verdauga Greeneyes, had ruled most of that country for many long seasons, until his own daughter had poisoned him; now she was attempting to tighten her grip on the land. But the woodlanders, led by a strange warrior mouse named Martin, were rebelling and it had turned into an out-and-out confrontation. Ashleg himself had been the chief adviser to both Verdauga and Tsarmina, but after an attack from the woodlanders his mistress seemed to have gone mad – literally. Ashleg had lost his nerve and fled south.

But after half a day's travel, Ashleg, still terrified by the thought of what would happen if he was caught by the wildcat, had decided to change his course northwards, to throw any searchers off the scent. Up till then he hadn't bothered to obscure his tracks, wanting to get as far away from the horde as possible, but as he turned north he left almost no trace.

Now, he was well away from the fortress of Kotir and had seen no sign of hunters. He had taken a small haversack of rations, but it was swiftly running out, so he was living mostly off any herbs and edible plants he found. Water wasn't hard to find, with streams and rivulets running to the great River Moss everywhere.

Ashleg had no idea where he was going. There was a vague picture in his head, of a peaceful place, a lonely place where he could build a dwelling easily enough and live quietly, but apart from that he wasn't set on anywhere.

But he knew why he was heading this way. When he was young, Ashleg had lived in the north-west of Mossflower, with his mother and siblings. He sighed as he remembered.

_Ashleg had never known his father. Pine marten mates didn't stay together for more than a few months, so by the time the little marten kit was self-aware, whoever he was had been long gone. Ashleg didn't mind; his life was fulfilling enough, at that time._

_He was one of his mother's first litter; four kits, three males and a female. Ashleg had never liked his brothers much, not being fond of their brutal play-fight games, but had preferred to spend time with his sister. What had her name been? _Ashleg panicked slightly as he cast about for the name, but then relaxed as he remembered. _It had been Roseleaf, that was it._

_Ashleg's name had not originally been that; he had had another, Jip, but he hadn't used that name in over thirty seasons. His mother had liked the names of plants, being an unusually peace-loving marten, and now Ashleg recalled these trivial things he wished he had got to know her better._

_He had loved Roseleaf to the end of the world and back, as their mother had said. They understood each other well, and the first few seasons of his life had been Ashleg's most blissful. _

This country he was so painstakingly traversing was very like the home he used to have. But that was away to the east a league or two, and he didn't think he could bear going back to that place.

It was soon midday, and Ashleg slowly sat himself down on the bank of a small streamlet, groaning, practically hearing his bones creak. He wasn't really that old; he was in his late middle seasons, but the terrible injury that had handicapped him most of his life made him feel ancient. He opened his haversack and brought out a small barley loaf with some meagre cheese – not much, but all he could have if he was going to ration his food carefully.

He rested there for a while, taking his ease before the inevitable marching. At one point he thought he saw a small face in the undergrowth over the stream, but as he snapped his head round, it wasn't there anymore. Ashleg put it down to the patchy light and carried on with his small meal.

Just when he was finished, he heard a voice beside him and jumped.

"You, woodenleg!" An adult mouse, about the same in seasons as Ashleg, was advancing on him armed with a large club. Alarmed, the pine marten scrambled up from the grassy bank.

"Get away, vermin!" the mouse shouted angrily. "We don' t want any of yer thievery and murder round 'ere!"

"I'm no thief," said Ashleg warily. But the mouse scowled all the more.

"Sure, and I believes youse like I believes the sky is green!" he yelled. "Sling yer hook, or taste this club!"

"All right, all right, I'm going!" cried Ashleg, holding his paws up to show he meant what he said. He picked up his crutch and haversack, and stumped away from the small clearing.

As he looked for a ford he could easily cross, Ashleg pondered the mouse's words. To any of the peace-loving species, he knew he looked the perfect villain; a pine marten, with wooden leg and scarred body and face. None would ever trust him; none would give him time to explain his intentions. His heart sank as he thought miserably: _Maybe I'll never be accepted. Maybe it is just better to end it here._

He looked at the small dagger on his belt, but the last reserves of his youthful pride of the time he joined Greeneyes' horde rose up, and he sheathed it again. There was still something to live for; Ashleg didn't know what it was yet, but someday he would find it.

_Ten Days Later_

Ashleg felt a sharp kick on his side. Half-asleep, still dreaming, thinking it was his brother Wildvine, he muttered and turned over.

Then memory hit him and he started upright convulsively. A ring of vermin surrounded him where he sat on the sward beside his dead fire. Each of them was holding some form of rusty, chipped but very dangerous-looking cutlass or dagger.

Ashleg found himself being forcibly reminded of that time, long in the past, when he'd been disfigured by a gang much like these. He started to sweat, panicked, and trembled all over. With the last remnants of his reason, he made sure his dagger was well hidden.

Then the fear took over and he started gabbling.

"I haven't got any valuables, take the food, I haven't got anything worth taking, don't hurt me, there's food in the haversack…."

But their sadistic grins just grew all the wider…

Author's note: So, what do you think? This is my first fanfic, so I hope you like it! I always wondered what might happen to Ashleg after he fled Kotir, so I decided to do it myself. Please review!


	2. The Valley

Hello again! I have the next chapter of my (almost) epic ready, so I hope you like it.

Sorry for the delay, but as you will see this chapter is somewhat longer than the first, so it took me a while to get it together. Thanks to Nirin Tani and akibono for your reviews, as well.

Oh, and because I forgot to last time, I would like to make it clear that the Redwall world is entirely copyright to Brian Jacques and not to me. In fact, most of the main characters, like Ashleg, Brome, Rowanoak and Urran are not originally mine. I've just embellished on them a bit. But characters like Caelan Riversword, and others not mentioned yet, are my creations and not to be used without emailing me and asking first. Not that any of you would want to use them, as you've probably got your own ideas, but anyway. Enjoy!

The Ashleg Chronicles: Chapter Two – The Valley

His long bloodied dagger in one hand, Ashleg circled his foe. A stink rose from the small clearing; two rats, a ferret and a weasel all lay dead, blood seeping from their chests. Ashleg had used an old trick – pretending to be helpless had given him the element of surprise when he leapt up onto the first attacker. Despite his handicap, Ashleg was still a wily fighter, having adapted to his disabilities over the seasons. Apart from the four vermin who had been killed, five had run away after the first two had fallen. Typical vermin; domineering when they faced an unarmed creature, but cowards when confronted by a fighting beast – even a one-legged one.

_You're the same,_ whispered a voice inside the tiny part of Ashleg's mind that was not taken up with staying alive. _You have always been the same as them, all your life. You are vermin, no one will accept you, because you are the same. _

Now there was only one gangster left, presumably the leader. Ashleg grinned at him callously, the expression twisted and mutilated by the web of scarring across his face. Then, suddenly, he dug his wooden peg down into the pounded earth and used it to vault toward the weasel, dagger outstretched. The weasel ducked the stab nimbly and swung his curved sword up to catch Ashleg's stomach on his own momentum, but the dagger blocked it with a clang, then moved away. Scowling savagely, the pine marten feinted to the left, then stabbed into the weasel's haunches, drawing blood but not wounding him mortally. The two of them, evenly matched, whirled in a dance of death for long minutes.

Ashleg was getting tired. The metal and bark bindings that jointed his wooden limb to the stump of his old one were rubbing his flesh uncomfortably. Soon he was going to collapse, and this weasel was much younger and fitter than him.

Then he saw the perfect opening. He was backed up against a small tree, and the weasel was advancing on him; but Ashleg's abandoned crutch lay in the ground behind him. It was sticking up slightly, having been driven into the ground when Ashleg heaved himself up into the battle. There was a chance – if he timed it properly.

Time seemed to hang in limbo for a second as Ashleg drew back his hand, with the dagger in it, as if he were to throw it straight at the weasel. He stabbed it forward into the air, and with that motion his enemy stepped quickly behind and to the side.

Ashleg acted quickly as the weasel tripped himself up neatly. He bounded forward to the prone vermin, and closing his eyes, whispered to himself "_This is the last time_," and drove his dripping dagger down into his adversary's heart. The black weasel's eyes widened for a second, he twitched, and they glazed over in the eternal sleep of death.

Ashleg, chest heaving, staggered away from the scene of carnage and collapsed to the ground. Now the initial adrenaline rush had gone, he noticed all the new wounds swelling and bleeding all over his body, and the old ones throbbing. Panting hoarsely, he dragged himself upright with his crutch and tried not to give in to the urge to lie down here and wait for death. _I'm alive. I have to get away from here; there is still something to live for, still something to live for…_

He stumbled onwards, barely noticing anymore which direction he was headed in, almost blinded by the pain and loss of blood. It was almost an hour and a half later when he heard some creature call to him.

"You, pine marten! What are you doing round these parts?"

Ashleg looked up, and saw that he was facing a wide stream. On the other bank, a party of woodland creatures stood staring at him – an otter, two mice, a hedgehog and a huge female badger. The older mouse was the one who had hailed him. Ashleg stared dumbly back, trying to work out if this was a new threat.

"Don't waste your words on the scum, Urran," said the badger scathingly. "None of that kind will appreciate compassion. Vermin, leave this place or I'll drive you from it!"

Ashleg couldn't bite back an agonised sob. It was true. Goodbeasts would never accept him, never trust him. Shuddering, convulsing in pain, tears flowing down his face, Ashleg unsheathed his dagger, still encrusted with the blood of the weasel.

When the woodlanders saw it, they stepped back a pace. The badger growled, and the otter's paw strayed toward his belt.

But the younger mouse saw when Ashleg turned the dagger towards his own throat, gasping, and realised his true intentions. He leapt forward. "NO!"

It was the last thing Ashleg saw before he fell, sighing, into oblivion and a dark singing.

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Far away, two creatures sat in a large, shadowy tent. The first, an ancient, bent old soul, was speaking in a low, gravely voice.

"It is ripe for the taking, my lord. With our numbers, it would be a clean kill, without too much bloodshed. I would recommend we strike hard and fast, before they can try to defend themselves."

The younger beast, swathed in shadows, spoke out slowly and quietly. "Tell me of the creatures who live there."

"My lord, there are many, but not as many as your horde. A few otters, lots of mice, hedgehogs and voles, some old shrews – no squirrels that I know of. And a large badger, a female."

"Are there any defences around them? Walls, maybe, traps or trenches?"

"None that I saw, my lord."

"How many of the creatures are trained to fight?"

"Only a few, lord. The badger would probably be the greatest threat."

"I see. You have done well, my liege, you may go now."

The old one bowed stiffly and hobbled out of the tent slowly. As soon as he was out of earshot, though, he muttered sullenly, "You will fail if you do not heed my counsel, Owlrider."

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_Ashleg remembered the day his sister died._

_It had been a hard winter. Roseleaf was sickly with a fever that all their mother's herbs and remedies had failed to cure. Ashleg did almost nothing but sit by her bedside every day, worrying, pleading with her to stay alive, to keep fighting. _

_But one frost-lined morning, Ashleg's mother sent him out to take some air. She said he would fall sick himself, doing nothing but sitting with Roseleaf, and then what would she do? Wildvine and Earthseed were long gone, and she would be on her own._

_When Ashleg came back, Roseleaf was dead, a single asphodel bloom clutched in her lifeless paws. _

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Voices lanced through to Ashleg's tired mind, strange voices. He heard them without really taking anything in.

"I don't see why we should keep the vermin, Brome."

"Caelan, don't be so heartless. He may be a vermin, but have you seen the state of him? He'd not survive another day if we left him without help. That goes against my ethics, and it should go against yours, too."

"Rowanoak doesn't agree to it."

"Rowanoak's entire family was killed by vermin, friend, so you can't really blame her for hating them so much."

"By the Dark Forest, Brome, they killed your sister!"

The nearer speaker's voice grew quieter, sadder. "I can't afford to hate all vermin for the actions of one warlord, Caelan. I'm a healer, and such prejudices get in the way of the job."

There was a pause for a moment. "You've grown up, Brome."

"Oh, I hadn't noticed."

Suddenly a surge of energy rushed into Ashleg's aching bones, and his eyes flew open. He started upwards, staring.

He was lying on a bed in a small room, midday sunlight streaming through the windows. The walls were panelled with wood and a tray of medicines and herbs lay on a little table beside the bed. The young mouse who had tried to stop him taking his own life back at the stream had stepped back from the bed – where, Ashleg suddenly realised, he must have been binding his injuries, as he could feel clean linen stemming the flow of blood.

Beside the mouse was a dangerous looking female otter, a long sword strapped across her back. Her face and head were daubed with bright clan marks of body paint and she had a thin, white scar running down the length of her left jawbone. Both the woodlanders were dressed in green tunics, tied at the waist with brown cord.

The otter scowled and put her paw to the hilt of her sword. "Don't try anything, marten. I'm ready."

"Caelan," the mouse began to rebuke her, but Ashleg spoke before he could.

"Who are you?" he croaked. "Where is this place?"

The mouse nodded to him. "My name is Brome, and this is my companion Caelan Riversword. This house is in Noonvale."

Ashleg stayed still, so the otter – Caelan – apparently decided he was no threat and sat back down by the door, crossing her legs meditatively.

"What's Noonvale?" asked Ashleg.

Caelan sent a warning look to the mouse Brome, and he said carefully, "A valley in the North Woods, where peaceful creatures can live in security. It is my and Caelan's home. Now; what is your name, and where do you come from?"

Ashleg weighed up his options. There wouldn't be any harm in telling the mouse his name, surely – but his seasons in Greeneyes' horde had showed him that caution was always necessary.

"I'm Ashleg," he said finally. "I came from Mossflower country."

"Mossflower?" asked Caelan with surprise. "That's hundreds of leagues south."

"I had good reason to get away."

It seemed for a moment that Brome was going to ask what reason, but he refrained. Ashleg was glad. He didn't want to talk about his former life.

"All right, do you want me to carry on with the healing?" asked Brome with just a hint of nervousness.

Still distrustful, Ashleg hesitated a little. But the throbbing of his wounds persuaded him quickly, and he allowed the healer mouse to continue bandaging his encrusted cuts and gashes. The otter Caelan Riversword just sat by the door quietly, her great golden sword eased in the sheath. _They don't trust me, _ thought Ashleg. _But they took me in and healed me, so that must be a good sign. _

And as he lay there, staring at the carved wooden ceiling, Ashleg began to feel something almost completely alien to him. Even though he was among creatures he barely knew, who didn't trust him, who he couldn't trust himself, Ashleg felt safe.

------------------------------

In the wreck of the destroyed fortress Marshank, one creature wandered. An elderly female hedgehog, hobbling along on an old hawthorn cane, stopped for a moment and looked to the stars.

"He's coming," she said in a croaky, muttering voice, almost as if she were talking to herself. "The Owlrider is coming, and the fates help those who oppose him."

Mysterious eh? At least that's how I meant it to be. Please review and let me know if the battle scene was good or not!


	3. The Enemy

Here I go with the next chapter… there may not be all the questions answered, but you'll have to wait for that! Again, sorry for the wait. I've decided to show what Brome's thinking and feeling, to bring him into the story a bit more.

Thanks to akibono, Nirin Tani, saber-otter, Fnanit-banana for your reviews, they were much appreciated.

I'm working on my own calculations as to the length of time since Badrang was defeated: that it took Martin at least half a season to get down to the Mossflower area, then he was kept in the dungeons of Kotir for the whole winter, and then another half-season or so until Ashleg left, and then the three or four weeks he took to travel to Noonvale. I hope that's roundabout the right time!

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter Three: The Enemy

Brome sat by the fire in his own Noonvale home, thinking. He was exhausted after the events the day had thrown at him; first, the finding of the pine marten, Ashleg as he called himself, then him fainting. And Brome's own shock at the extent of his wounds, both past and present, at the fact that some creatures could find it in themselves to do that to another living thing.

Of course, he knew that already. Rose's death had shown that to him. But it was over two seasons since the Great Marshank Rebellion, and the horror had softened a little – but his grief for his sister had not. Brome sighed heavily. Every day he had to fight a battle, to crush the hate and anger against all vermin. Not all of them were wicked, he was sure of that, so the anger was irrational and prejudiced.

He'd come a long way from the headstrong young mouse who had left home, so long ago, over a petty argument with his father.

The door opened and Brome's ageing mother Aryah came in, carrying a cup of steaming willowbark tea. She handed it to him, smiling, and sat down. "There you are, Brome dear, nothing like willowbark tea to keep you going. I must say, you look exhausted."

"Thanks, Mother." Brome sipped the sweetened tea appreciatively, and yawned.

"So," Aryah said expectantly, "who was this creature you spent the whole day healing? Rowanoak wouldn't tell me, said it might cause unrest if everyone knew."

"Do you really want to know?" asked Brome wearily. His mother nodded, and he sighed good-humouredly. "All right. It was a vermin, a pine marten that we found when we went up to greet the shrews. He was in a bad state, Mother, wounded all over from some fight and losing blood fast. Rowanoak and Father didn't want to have anything to do with him, but I insisted we take him back to one of the little huts. His name's Ashleg, or so he says – probably because he's only got the one leg."

Aryah sat back. "From your description, Brome, I have to say I'd agree with your father on that. We don't want vermin here, especially after…" she swallowed resolutely. "After Marshank, and that young mouse Martin leaving because of it."

Brome felt a lump in his throat as he picked up on the words unsaid. But he carried on speaking.

"If you'd seen him, Mother – well, he wouldn't have survived without my help, frankly. Don't worry, though, Caelan's with him now, and Skipper Helmhard is taking the night shift. Father insisted on it, even though the marten's too weak to walk, let alone hurt anyone."

Aryah nodded musingly. Mother and son were quiet for a while, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Then, the door opened once more and another mouse entered; Urran Voh, the chieftain and patriarch of Noonvale. He smiled at his family and stoked the fire, groaning as he bent over, before sitting down.

"So, Brome, what news of the pine marten?"

"Well, it's hard to say at the moment, Father. He's badly injured, but I think I may be able to heal him, at least mostly. There are old wounds too; did you see how his body was all twisted and scarred like that? It was horrible," Brome added, and for a moment he wasn't the burdened healer – just the young mouse his seasons implied.

"I have a bad feeling about this," said Urran darkly. "Not about the marten specifically," he said hurriedly to Brome's frustrated sigh, "but I think this forebodes something worse to come. We've had barely three seasons of peace, and that's not long. I think we may have to face a threat to Noonvale once more."

------------------------------

It was dark in the small hut at the outskirts of Noonvale, and Ashleg lay on the bed, staring up at the faint light patterns dancing on the ceiling from lanterns in the main circle of houses. He wasn't entirely comfortable; the otter Caelan Riversword had stayed in the room when Brome the healer left. He knew he was being guarded, and any woodlander would do that to a vermin such as him, but he was still rather uneasy about the gleam of her half-sheathed broadsword in the darkness. She obviously didn't trust him, and had showed it.

Pain shot down Ashleg's side, and he gasped. The otter shifted slightly at the door, but didn't speak.

There was quiet for a few minutes more, but then Caelan started talking. "So, marten, you come from Mossflower? Or was that just a tale you told Brome?"

"Mossflower was my birthplace, yes." Ashleg's voice was hoarse and scratchy. "I wouldn't lie."

The otter warrior snorted. "I was brought up to believe that all vermin were liars and murderers. My experience hasn't exactly changed my mind."

"I know. But I mean it when I say that I only want peace now." _Yeah, right_, sneered his mind. _Anyone could say that, she's really going to believe you. _

There was a pause. Then he heard the ottermaid's voice again, not sounding any different.

"How did you lose your leg?"

Ashleg shuddered as he remembered that day, and replied angrily, "Why should I tell you that, otter?"

"Because I want to know, vermin."

It was such an obvious answer that Ashleg gave out a rasp of a laugh. "I was attacked by a gang of foxes and rats, seasons ago. I survived, but my leg was too cut up – it would have got infected, so the healers had to remove it. Happy now?"

She didn't reply, so Ashleg muttered, "Mutilated – like the rest of me." The otter didn't appear to have heard his bitter remark, and they lapsed back into silence.

A little while later, there was a rap on the hut's door, and Caelan got up to open it. Ashleg could faintly hear her conversing with another creature outside.

"Your shift's over, Riversword, go and get some sleep. Any trouble?"

"No, he's weak as a starved toad, Skip. Don't know why Voh insisted on him being guarded."

"Ah well, Caelan. The Noonvalers are our friends, we do our best to help 'em. Besides, a few weeks and we'll be off to the Hullabaloo for the summer. It's your first time, I take it?"

"Yes, Skipper. I was old enough last time, but I was taken sick."

"Oh yes – I remember. Well, go on then, food and some sleep. Night, Riversword."

"Night, Skip."

The silhouette of a huge, muscled male otter entered the room and took up the same place as Caelan had. Soon, though, Ashleg's fatigue overtook him and he drifted off into the realms of fevered, bloody dreams.

------------------------------

In the nearby camp, the ancient weasel hobbled back in with his news. He passed a stake in the ground, onto which was securely chained a strange creature – the master called it an eagle owl, a beast from beyond the furthest north. Blood encrusted its one eye, which was bright amber and huge. It regarded the old one beadily, hatred practically dripping from its gaze, and pecked at him as he walked by.

Fortunately for him, the weasel was well out of the owl's reach, but he cursed at it angrily. "Get off, you stupid bird, or taste my spear!"

Underneath, he knew it was an empty threat. Everyone knew what the penalty was for touching the bird – torture and a slow death, by the Owlrider personally.

Reaching the Owlrider's tent, the weasel made for the closed flap, but was stopped by the night sentry. It was the wiry, lean fox Tynos; skilled with the scimitar and longbow, the former mercenary had risen swiftly through the ranks to be the Owlrider's personal bodyguard. The weasel disliked Tynos – he was arrogant and cynical, using his rank to bully the lower beasts, often depriving them of plunder or food.

"Where d'you think yer goin', weasel?" sneered Tynos, swinging his scimitar round to the old weasel's neck.

"Let me through, bonebrain, there's important news for the Owlrider!"

"Password?"

"Kemeay Isle. Come on, this won't wait!"

Reluctantly, the fox stepped aside and the weasel entered the tent. It was as dark and unlit as ever, and the weasel shuddered nervously as he bowed and said, "My lord Owlrider, I have news of the valley."

Two pinpricks of red light shone in the gloom. "_Leave me!_"

"But my lord –"

"_LEAVE!"_

The weasel didn't question it again. Terrified, he ran from the tent, ignoring Tynos' jeers.

Author's note: All will be explained in time, I promise! Please please please review, it's quite depressing to see you've got over a hundred hits and only six or seven people have bothered to review.


	4. The Friend

Thanks to Odairu64, lavisla, Billios and SasukeBlade for your reviews, they were very much appreciated.

Again, sorry for the delay… please review!

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter 4: The Friend

_Eight Days Later_

Ashleg sat quietly by the side of the waterfall's plunge pool, thinking. His wounds were healing more swiftly now, and he couldn't believe his luck; not only was Brome a very skilled healer, but he had convinced the chieftain Urran Voh to let Ashleg stay, at least for a while.

The marten had grown accustomed to the peace and camaraderie that was inherent in the valley, and he often thought of spending the rest of his days here. But he knew at the same time that almost every creature living in Noonvale distrusted him – and what made him frustrated was that it was nothing to do with his personality, just his species.

This place, by the waterfall which led the river down into Noonvale, was one of Ashleg's favourites; it was out of the way, peaceful and soothing. No one would bother him here, although Brome did sometimes come to check how he was.

He was slipping into a half-doze when a small voice piped up beside him. "Who're you, mista?"

Ashleg started slightly, and turned round quickly to see a small otterbabe staring up at him with huge dark eyes. The little male was sat beside him, back legs crossed, and Ashleg was instantaneously and unwillingly reminded of Caelan Riversword. This was the first time he had been faced with a young one alone, and he wasn't sure what to say.

"My name's Ashleg," he said finally, in a gruff voice. The little otter grinned infectiously and drummed his tiny back paws on the ground. "Funny name. I'm Jegg. You lookered lonely, so's I came to cheer you up!"

Ashleg was astounded, and not just at the babe's apparent insight. This was the first time – ever, not just since he came to Noonvale – that anybeast had tried to help him without being asked. It was a strange feeling.

Smiling just a little, the pine marten replied, "Really? How will you do that?"

The small, round otterbabe appeared to deliberate on this point carefully. Then his face lit up as he thought of something.

"I tell you a story!"

"All right."

Jegg scratched his ear thoughtfully, and spoke again. "My dad telled me this story. He says it happened a few s'sons ago, when I was very likkle. Righ', once 'pon a time, fara far away – well, no it wasn't faraway, was here – there was a badbeast called Barang, I thinks, and he kepted slaves, and…"

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Helping down in the kitchen gardens, Caelan looked up toward the pool and saw Ashleg sitting there. She scowled, her gaudy clan marks flexing and wrinkling; she still didn't trust that pine marten. Then, to her shock, she saw the little otter Jegg seated beside him, his small paws waving and gesturing, saying something to the quietly listening Ashleg.

Caelan straightened up from her work and gazed over at the odd pair. It wasn't Jegg she was surprised by – the little fellow was always friendly to everybeast, regardless of how they looked – but by Ashleg. His behaviour went against everything she had ever believed about vermin. Through tales and experience, she knew a babe like Jegg was easy prey for the pine marten, and she would have assumed he would have harmed him, or at least sent him away angrily. But here Ashleg was, listening to everything the otterbabe said. It was unnatural, and it disturbed her.

Perhaps old Tesey had the answers to her questions? The elderly otterwife, Caelan's aunt, had always helped her with any doubts or fears she had. _Yes, I'll go to Tesey,_ Caelan decided. _But first, I have to get Jegg. Just in case. _

------------------------------

Jegg finished his story, and looked up at Ashleg for approval. The pine marten smiled at the otterbabe – still a strange expression for him – and said, "That was a good story, Jegg." He was still reeling from the surprise of hearing Martin's name – Martin, who had roused the Mossflower woodlanders to rebellion.

"Now you tell me a story," said Jegg happily.

Ashleg sighed. "I don't really know any stories, little one."

The otter thought for a moment, then said, "Tell me about you!"

Slowly, Ashleg nodded. "All right, Jegg. Well, I was born in a place a long way away from here, called Mossflower…" His voice trailed away as Caelan Riversword, her golden sword shining in the glow of the evening sunlight, appeared beside him on the waterfall bank. The cold look on her tattooed face told him everything he needed to know.

"Come on, Jegg," she said, picking the babe up easily. "Your mother says it's time for bed. He's my cousin," she said curtly to Ashleg, and carried his new friend back towards the main settlement.

"Bye mista Ashleg," called Jegg over Caelan's shoulder, waving a little paw. "Tell me your story anudder day!"

Ashleg waved half-heartedly back, then picked himself up, groaning and rubbing the bindings on his wooden leg. He made his way back to the little hut at the border of Noonvale that was his temporary home, and sat inside, smiling slightly at the thought that someone cared – even if it was only a tiny otterbabe.

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Owlrider mused quietly in the tent. The news from the old weasel was strange; a pine marten, accepted by the woodlanders into their home? Such a thing had never been heard of before, in this part of the land at least. But Owlrider could clearly see the advantages this development would give the plan. The creature hoped everything would turn out as planned – then all Owlrider's heart's desires would be granted.

Owlrider left the tent and strode over to where the eagle owl was picketed, drawing a gleaming sword and cutting free the ropes that bound it. But before it could fly away, Owlrider jumped on its back and wrenched cruelly on its neck feathers. The eagle owl screeched and flew up into the glossy night, the vermin on its back laughing in insane revelry.

Author's note: There we are! I know not much has happened, but I've been having trouble with getting this done, what with school and stuff. And writer's block. Sigh. I realise that last paragraph may have sounded a bit awkward, but it's concealing an important truth, so it was necessary. The next chapter may well take as long as this one did, but it'll be longer, I promise! Please R&R!


	5. The Confusion

Sorry for the delay, here's chapter five. Thanks to SasukeBlade, Billios, Tiamath, saber-otter and mala for your reviews. Enjoy!

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter Five: The Confusion

Brome was outside, leaning on the monolith that was the sacred stone of Noonvale. He stared up into the calm night sky, counting stars, not really thinking. It was a full moon.

The treetops around the valley swayed in a gentle wind, some of their branches holding night-lanterns, creating a feeling of total peace for the young mouse. Brome thought Noonvale was at its most beautiful at this time, in the late night.

Suddenly a dark shape, blacker than the sky, swooped into Brome's view. It was huge, a monstrous shape with clawed wings and a sickening hunchback. The mouse stared for one terrified second at the rapidly advancing silhouette – and then gave in to the primal fear that was gripping his body. Choking in horror, Brome scrambled down the slope to his family house, dashing in and slamming the door. He fell into bed and pulled the blankets over his head, trembling, moaning in fright.

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The next morning, Ashleg sat beside the window of his small hut, watching the goings-on outside. He was rather puzzled as to the meaning of all this commotion – a group of creatures had already departed to the top of the hill above the vale, hedgehogs and mice were opening up and furnishing huts which didn't seem to have been lived in for a while, and Ashleg could tell the cooks were preparing something bigger than the usual noonday meal. He had asked the otter Skipper Helmhard – who had come in the morning to tell him gruffly that Chieftain Urran Voh would see him later – what was going on, but the burly creature had only looked at him suspiciously and walked out again.

As he watched the bustle, looking out hopefully for a sign of little Jegg, his door opened and Brome came in. The healer mouse smiled at him and sat down across the room from Ashleg. "How are you this morning, Ashleg?"

"Well enough, Brome, thank you," replied the marten absently, still rather distracted.

"Did Skipper Helmhard give you the message earlier?" asked Brome.

"Yes, he did."

"Well, I thought I'd warn you that my father wants to see you to decide if you are fit to stay here or not." Brome looked anxious. "I mean, if you want to leave, you're well enough to travel – but if you want to stay, well… it might be difficult," he finished lamely.

Ashleg's heart sank. His only friend, apart from Jegg, was Brome; and from what he had heard of the Noonvale politics, although he was respected as a healer, Brome's youth usually got in the way of his opinions being taken seriously in other matters. Ashleg _wanted_ to stay in the valley, despite the cold-shouldering of nearly all its inhabitants. He thought – or rather hoped, but it was a strong hope – that he could eventually show them he didn't fit in their vermin stereotype.

To change the subject, he asked Brome, "Why is everyone so busy today?"

The mouse visibly brightened up. "Oh, I forgot that you wouldn't know about this, Ashleg, sorry. Well, basically, only some Noonvalers live in the valley all the time – mostly the mice, moles, hedgehogs and a few others. You'll have noticed there aren't any squirrels or shrews around at the moment."

Ashleg nodded, and Brome continued. "Well, those two particular tribes are always away in the winter, spring and early summer – it's tradition. Then, around now, they come back from their wanderings and stay at Noonvale for the rest of summer and autumn."

"I heard Caelan talking about something called a Hullabaloo," said Ashleg. "She said they were leaving for it soon."

"Yes, it's an otter gathering, on the west coast," Brome said enthusiastically. "Some of the otters told me about it – tribes from all over the country meet up with sea otters and have, well, basically a three-week party. Typical otter things – they play in the sea, have competitions, feasts. It sounds good fun." The young mouse seemed slightly wistful. "So Noonvale will be very full for a week or so after the squirrels and shrews come home, until the otters leave for the Hullabaloo."

Ashleg nodded. Brome spoke once more. "Well, I have to leave now and help in the kitchens. I'll see you later, perhaps." The young mouse shut the door behind him, and Ashleg was alone again.

He ran a claw round the deep rivulets of scarring on his cheeks and muzzle, wincing when he inadvertently pressed too hard. Trepidation filled him at the thought of many more creatures coming to Noonvale; more explanations, more cold glances, more distrust, he thought. And suddenly, a huge exhaustion of soul and body gripped him, and the pine marten fell asleep where he sat.

------------------------------

_Ashleg dreamed of his brother Wildvine. The young pine marten had always been stronger than Ashleg, fitter too. The dreamer remembered a time when the four siblings were very young and were in the woods, playing some form of hide-and-seek. Ashleg was the searcher, and at one point he saw something moving in the undergrowth. Thinking it was Wildvine, he ran after it, following the sounds._

_But there the dream didn't go on as the memory should have. Wildvine turned, and his brother recoiled as he morphed into a fox, a bloodied scimitar in his paw. Ashleg gasped as he recognised the gang of vermin who had crippled him for life, and tried to run – but something grabbed his footpaw. He looked down, and it was Wildvine, but he was limp and glassy-eyed, dead – and he had hold of him in a death-grip – and Ashleg screamed and screamed as the fox advanced on him, until the scimitar filled his vision, all sound blotted out, and the whole world exploded in a huge pain on his chest._

------------------------------

When Ashleg woke, gasping, it was as if he was floating for a second – then he found himself lying spread-eagled on the floor, and choked back a scream as every scar and wound on his shaking body set on fire with pain. He convulsed, and immediately regretted it.

He couldn't stand, could barely move. He had no idea how long he lay there, the agony racking his body hardly lessening at all. But the next thing he knew, the door of his small hut opened and Caelan Riversword, her shimmering blade newly polished, stepped in.

The otter saw him, flat on his back, every muscle in his body tensed in an effort to lessen the pain, and her brow creased. Ashleg croaked, "_Help." _When she didn't respond, he said, with more force, "_Please!"_

For one heart-stopping moment, he thought Caelan was going to abandon him; but with one smooth movement she was at his side and grasping his lacerated paw. "Here," she said, and pulled him – gently, for one with so much strength – to his footpaws.

Ashleg swayed for a moment, then sank down onto his bed. Caelan, surprisingly, kept tight hold of his paw.

"What was it?" she asked, her voice neither hostile nor concerned.

The marten swallowed and said haltingly, "Relapse. I used to get them – all the time. Hadn't – had one – for weeks, thought they were gone."

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'll be – fine, in an hour or so."

Letting go of his paw, the otter stepped back, and rubbed her forehead almost agitatedly, as if undecided about something. Ashleg looked up at her, and their eyes met for a second – his grateful, hers strangely confused. Then she said bluntly, "I'll get Brome," and swept out from the house.

A/N: And there, it was longer, it was 5 kilobytes longer than the last chapter! Please R&R, I'd especially appreciate feedback on the Ashleg-Caelan scene. I'm sorry not much is happening, but be patient!


	6. The Foreboding

Chapter six is here, it's the longest chapter yet, so enjoy! Thanks to Billios, Tahalli, clara200, MidnightFeline, Candia and Blissey for the continued support.

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter Six: The Foreboding 

Ley gazed down in awe at the peaceful vista that was spread out before her – Noonvale, the village her new clan had been telling her about for weeks. She'd never seen anything like it before, not having ever lived in any kind of village or community before. The idea of many creatures, not related, living together simply hadn't occurred to her.

A middle-aged squirrel from the far northern kingdom of Ryem, Ley was slim but hardily built, her tail smaller than most squirrels'. After being banished from her small Ryemi clan – an event she had not resisted; on the contrary, she had welcomed it – she had been wandering southwards alone, when she met and befriended the Noonvale squirrels on their autumn travels. When they learned of Ley's circumstances, they had accepted her as an adopted member of their clan. All through the winter and spring, she had lived among them, getting used to their way of life and hearing much about the undisturbed valley they lived in during the summer and early autumn.

Now she was here, she was amazed at the sheer _variety_ of creatures welcoming the squirrels home. Moles, mice, otters, hedgehogs, voles, hares, even an old badger; she had seen lone wanderers of most of these species, of course, but never so many all in one place! Ryem had been largely divided into two parts, the squirrels' region and the otters' region. She'd never been to the latter.

Suddenly, her roving eyes picked out something very strange, and disturbing. Up on the far slope of the valley, away from the main throng, was sitting a _pine marten._

Ley frowned. This couldn't be right. The clan had assured her vermin were kept away from Noonvale. Staring at the marten, Ley put a paw to her bow, which was slung across her back with a quiver of arrows.

"Don't worry," said a voice from beside her. Ley started and looked round; an adolescent otter had fallen in step with her, as the other otters were greeting friends. The clan-marked otter smiled and added, "That's Ashleg you see on the hill. Brome, our healer, took him in when he was attacked by a vermin gang. He hasn't done anything wrong as yet, so Chieftain Voh said he can stay for a time if he wishes."

"You mean – you actually _trust_ him?" asked Ley, puzzled at the Noonvaler's attitude. Vermin were vermin, surely; they didn't change.

The otter looked thoughtful for a moment, and said, "I don't know… but…" her voice trailed away. Ley suddenly felt very rude, as if she had intruded on something private.

"I'm sorry, I should introduce myself. My name's Ley; I joined this clan in the autumn."

"I thought I hadn't seen you before!" exclaimed the otter. "I'm Caelan Riversword." The two of them shook paws, and entered Noonvale together.

------------------------------

Chieftain Urran Voh, Rowanoak the badger, Skipper Helmhard, Foremole Urthcairn and the newly arrived Treequeen of the squirrels, Kayja, sat in a ring in the Council House of Noonvale. Kayja had called a council to break the news she and her squirrels had to tell.

"So, your Highness," asked Rowanoak in her deep, melodic voice, "what are these urgent tidings you speak of?"

The wild, beautiful squirrel queen looked grim. "They aren't good, I am afraid. While we were…" she paused to think "about ten leagues north, my trackers came upon some pawmarks, and traces of a camp. We studied the tracks, and they were of vermin; a mixed band, I'd say. It was obvious they carried weapons. In short, friends, I fear we may face a vermin attack."

A stunned silence ensued Kayja's words. After a minute, Skipper Helmhard spoke up. "If that's right, marm, I'd say we should start puttin' up some defences. Vermin won't give us any warnin', that's for shore."

Urran Voh, in his peaceful way, spoke his reluctance. "They may pass through without even noticing us. Then we would be wasting time and effort by putting up fortifications, which might deter travellers and traders."

This was true, all the council members knew; wandering traders, who brought spices and such from the south and furs from the north, were an essential part of Noonvale's economy. It certainly posed a difficult choice.

"Better soife than surry," commented Urthcairn in his heavily accented voice. And that settled the matter; nobeast ever doubted mole counsel, and his remark was all too true – as the war with Marshank had shown the inhabitants of Noonvale. The price of hesitance was all too great a price to pay…

------------------------------

"Tesey?" murmured Caelan, treading soft-footedly into the underground abode. The old seer otter's hoarse voice replied from around a bend in the tunnel.

"Caelan, kit, what's wrong?" She limped into view, leaning on her crutch – which now Caelan thought about it, was a great deal like Ashleg's – her rugged face wearing an expression of unusual worry. Tesey had always been able to determine a creature's mood, even from a single word they spoke.

"I want to talk to you, Tesey," Caelan explained, hugging her aunt. The two otters entered the firelit main cavern of Tesey's dwelling, and at the elder's gesture, Caelan told what had been bothering her.

"It's about that pine marten, Ashleg," she began. "Well, I agreed with Rowanoak when they brought him here, I thought he'd only cause trouble; but he hasn't…"

"That isn't the only thing, Caelan, is it?" said Tesey, her wild, penetrating eyes alight in the shadow of the flames.

"No." Caelan told her aunt about Ashleg's seizure of the day before – how she had been shocked at the amount of pain he had experienced, and shaken by her own callousness… "I'm sure I have to change something, Tesey, but I don't know how to," she concluded.

The seer was quiet for a time, gazing impassively into the fire. Finally, she spoke. "Since the marten arrived in Noonvale, my visions have been confused. Fragments, voices, emotions – all jumbled into one strange dream. And they all have been centred around five creatures. The first I was able to identify as you, Caelan; the second, Ashleg; and the last three were harder to define. One was a newcomer, with a bitter soul, and another who was at heart a wanderer. The last" Tesey's lined face creased into a frown "always appeared at the end of my vision, and woke me."

Caelan listened to this account, her disturbance growing. "Do you think I am linked with all these creatures?" she asked tentatively.

"That, kit, is something I cannot know." Tesey said gravely. "If you wanted advice, Caelan, all I can say is to listen. I have gathered from the squirrels that this may be a time of great change, and you and I can only hope to hold our own."

------------------------------

It soon became common knowledge in the vale that a vermin horde had been sighted a few leagues north. Ashleg heard the rumours, but it was Brome who told him the truth of it all. About three days after the squirrels' arrival, the mouse healer visited Ashleg in his hut, carrying several scrolls.

"Good morning, Ashleg," said Brome cheerfully, sitting down at the table with the pine marten. Ashleg returned the greeting, and stared at the scrolls he had deposited in front of him.

"What are these for, Brome?" he asked.

The mouse's brow furrowed. "Well – I wasn't really supposed to show you these, but I thought you might know whether they'll work or not." He spread one of the scrolls out, and Ashleg saw it was a map of Noonvale, with various defences and calculations inked in around the borders.

"Skipper and Treequeen Kayja finished them this morning," Brome explained. "They're the plans for the defences, in case the vermin come here." He looked surreptitiously out of the window. "Father wouldn't like it, but – do you think they're all right?"

Rather touched by Brome's trust in him, Ashleg studied the plans carefully. In principle, they would be effective – after all, they had been made by warriors – but as he looked again, he saw their flaw.

"Brome – why are the defences so weak on the south side?" he said.

"On the south side? I think that's because the squirrels spotted the tracks to the north. Don't worry, Skipper Helmhard says we can quickly build up the barricade there if the vermin swing around." The mouse blinked as Ashleg rose from his chair, grabbing his crutch from where it leaned against the wall and hobbling as fast as he could to the door. He looked out over the valley, and spotted Caelan, perched on the roof of the Council House with another otter and a middle-aged squirrel, talking and laughing. He quickly made his way to her, and called up at the trio, "Caelan! Do you know where the Treequeen is?"

Caelan shook her head, but the squirrel beside her, looking a little nervous at his presence, spoke up. "She's helping to fell a tree for the blockade, over behind the Chieftain's house."

"Thanks," Ashleg said, and set off again toward the south-east end of Noonvale. But before he was quite out of earshot, he heard the other otter on the roof, a young burly male with warrior-tattoos, remark disgustedly, "Vermin scum."

Ashleg stiffened, and looked back at the otter, his paw straying toward his dagger. But he shut his eyes and forced down the anger; he would gain nothing by showing violence now.

------------------------------

"Don't, Tiole," said Caelan reproachfully as Ashleg stumped away. "Where did you get the right to judge other creatures?"

"But Caelan, he's a _vermin! _" protested Tiole. "Everyone knows you can't trust them. I don't get why you keep defending him."

"Let's just say I don't think he's exactly the same as every vermin I've ever met!" Caelan said heatedly.

Tiole was about to retort when Ley interrupted him. "Stop fighting, you two. There's no point, you're never going to agree."

"What about you, Ley?" Tiole asked, turning to face her. "What do you think about vermin?"

"I think they're cold-blooded murderers, and shouldn't be allowed to live, _but_ I don't know about this Ashleg. You say he has been living here quite a while, and if he was going to make trouble, he would have already done it, surely?"

Tiole fell quiet, looking mutinous. Caelan saw his expression, and said, "If you're really so worried, Tiole, we can go and find out what Ashleg wants with Treequeen Kayja."

"All right," said Tiole and Ley together, and the trio slipped down from their vantage point and ran off toward the forest border.

------------------------------

Kayja somersaulted from the tree as it began falling, and landed smartly on the ground, wiping sawdust from her paws. Squirrels and moles scattered from under the great fir tree as it groaned and creaked, slamming to earth with a thump. She grinned. "Well done, everyone! Start stripping the branches, and we'll roll it to the north side."

She looked round, and was surprised to see Ashleg the pine marten limping swiftly toward her, a scroll clutched in his scarred paw.

"Your Highness Kayja!" he said breathlessly as he reached her, surprising her with the correct protocol. "I need you to tell me about the vermin tracks you saw on your travels."

Kayja stared at him penetratingly. "And why should I tell you that, pine marten?"

"Because these are wrong!" he said urgently. He unrolled the parchment in his hand and showed it to her. It was the plan she and Skipper Helmhard had worked on last night. "How did you get – "

"Brome showed me them," he interrupted. "Now _please_, Treequeen, tell me how many vermin you think were at the camp you saw?"

It was insolence, Kayja thought, but something in the marten's face made her relent. "My trackers estimated around two score. Why do you need to know this?"

By this time, Caelan, Tiole and Ley had edged up behind the pair, Brome was hurrying toward them down the hill, and Skipper Helmhard was sauntering up to see the cause of the disturbance. "Speak, marten," he said gruffly.

"It's an old trick, I've seen it done many times," said Ashleg. "Do you really think a band of forty would try and attack a place like this? If it's an invasion force at all, then the group you tracked would be a decoy to draw attention away from the main force – which is most likely coming up from the south."

Kayja looked at Skipper, and slowly he nodded. "The pine marten's right, Kayja. It makes sense."

Sighing with relief that they hadn't dismissed his logic, Ashleg rolled up the scroll and passed it to the beautiful squirrel. She strode off to direct her workforce, and Skipper nodded to Ashleg, saying reluctantly, "Thanks, marten. We might have been caught unawares without you."

Ashleg simply looked back into the huge otter's eyes, but inside he was delighted at this small sign of trust.

------------------------------

_Two Days Later_

"Attack!" screamed Owlrider.

A/N: A cliffhanger! evil laugh. Please R&R! Chapter seven is in the works.


	7. The Siege

Thanks to kareah, saber-otter, Goveg, Billios and Blissey for your wonderful reviews.

Sorry for the delay, but here is chapter seven as promised, and I hope you like it. Please R&R!

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter Seven: The Siege

Screaming and the flickering of fire-shadows on his wall woke Ashleg with a start. He tumbled out of his bed, gasping with the pain of sudden movement, and gazed in horror from his window.

Fire blazed across the tree-line, lighting Noonvale in a hellish glow. A horde of armed vermin was swarming up into the vale from the south-east, yelling war cries, and over their heads a monstrous bird hovered in the air.

Cold fear gripped Ashleg's heart. They had come. The horde had come…

He drew his dagger, and gazed at its keen blade; and sheathed it once more. Instead he picked up a club that Caelan had left in his hut the day before and gripped it tightly. Then he strode out onto the scene of chaos.

He could see at once that Noonvale would be crushed. The numbers of vermin were simply too vast for any other outcome. And then he realised their leader was the black silhouette rearing up on the back of a huge bird of prey. The flash of an explosion – somewhere near the Chieftain's house – lit up the monstrous shape for a second, and Ashleg saw the madness in its eyes.

This wasn't the first time in Ashleg's life that he'd been mortally afraid, but the all-consuming terror always came as a shock. He loped down the hill, staring desperately around for some escape route, hearing the screams and cries of dying creatures all around him.

And then he saw it. The northern path into the forest, clear and free of attackers. If he was quick, he could run into the woods and away before anyone realised what had happened.

Ashleg fled toward it.

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Caelan spun through the thick of the fight, her great golden sword grasped in her two paws, her face alight with battlelust. Vermin fell before her red-stained blade like chaff in the wind, although many of them were skilled with their own scimitars and pikes. She was the only otter with a sword in Helmhard's company, and other clanbeasts told her that when she was in battle she looked like a badger in the full Bloodwrath.

"Aiieeeeeee!" she screamed, a challenge to whatever fallen beast led this pack of scum. "Come and get me, vermin! I am Riversword, I deal death!"

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Brome crouched in the Council House beside an injured squirrel, applying comfrey poultices and bandaging over them while one of his assistants, a vole named Krike, cooled the squirrel's brow with a damp cloth. He finished, but it was plain his patient would not be going back into battle any time soon, so he directed Krike to find him a place to rest and hurried on to the next creature.

On the way, he saw another healer-in-training, a young hedgehog only a few seasons out of babyhood, trying to splint a mouse's broken leg. She was obviously having trouble. Brome knelt down beside her to help, whilst giving an on-the-job lesson to his young charge.

"Now I know we're short of healers, Irise, but with something like this the first rule is to get help. Especially when you're having to work quickly." The two of them finally secured the splint in place, and Brome helped the mouse to the door where helpers were waiting to take the injured to Noonvale's infirmary – fortunately placed away from the line of fighting. He recognized his patient suddenly – Yarrow, the brave mouse Brome had fought alongside at the battle of Marshank. Since then he had grown much, and was due to be married next autumn.

"Brome," said Yarrow hoarsely, smiling faintly. "I thought – I hoped we would never have to fight again after Marshank, eh, friend?"

Tears started unexpectedly in Brome's eyes. "Oh, Yarrow…"

"Is Coralie safe?" the other mouse asked. The healer nodded, relieved he could offer this much comfort to his friend. "She's fine, Yarrow, and helping in the infirmary. See if you can get to her there, all right?" He handed Yarrow to an old otter who helped him walk to the low building to the west, and rushed back inside as the next wave of injured came in.

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Ashleg was almost among the trees when he heard it.

A scream, a high-pitched shriek of terror, rising above the noise of the battle, that could only have come from a small creature. Involuntarily Ashleg jerked round to see what the source was.

A leering rat, armed with a pike and cutlass, towered over a small bundle on the floor, his arm raised to strike. The bundle Ashleg recognised as Jegg.

Fury coursed through his body as if his blood had turned to lightning, and he yelled with rage. Dashing down the slope, he stopped short in front of his foe and swung the club viciously, and it crashed into the rat's skull, laying him flat on the ground, not breathing.

Ashleg stared in horror at the dead rat. _I killed him. I killed again, when I promised myself not to…_

"Come on, sah!" yelled a voice beside him. Ashleg whirled to see a bloodied hare – Ballaw de Quincewold, he remembered suddenly – holding a kitchen knife in one hand and a rapier in the other. "Get the little chap to safety!"

Without any more encouragement Ashleg scooped up the trembling Jegg and ran off towards the furthest building he could see, the infirmary. Behind him he heard the hare call, "And that was jolly brave of you, sah, thank you!"

Ashleg hugged the little otter close to him, keeping his head down so as not to be a target for slingstones or arrows. Jegg slowly stopped shivering and buried his head in his rescuer's lacerated fur, whispering, "Thank you, mista Ashleg."

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Urran Voh looked out over the scene of carnage in his valley of peace, despair clouding his heart. There was no way the invaders could be fought off now; too many Noonvalers had been injured or killed, and there seemed no end to the horde of vermin. A single tear ran down the patriarch's face.

Then suddenly his wife dashed up beside him and grabbed his arm. Aryah pointed out to the east, where the sun was beginning to rise in a pinkish glow. "Urran – look!"

He looked, and gasped as a throng of new creatures poured into the vale from the forest, cutting into the side of the vermin horde.

Urran turned to his wife, and they smiled with new hope.

"The shrews have come!"

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Logalog Reut and his tribe made short work of the left wing of the horde, and within half an hour the vermin called a retreat. Brome and the healers' work continued far into the next day, but most took the opportunity for a rest. It was Ballaw de Quincewold, tired as he was, who roused most of those who were not seriously hurt to put out the still-smouldering fires and repair and strengthen the barricades. Ashleg worked as hard as anyone, but all the time he was thinking of the battle, and he knew one thing: this was not the end.


	8. The Anger

Thanks Billios, kareah, Goveg, Sandy Jane and saber-otter for supporting me with your reviews (they make me happy!)

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter Eight: The Anger

"All right, chaps and chapesses," yelled Ballaw in a parade-ground bellow, "lunch break, wot! Leave your jobs, grub's up!"

Ashleg grunted as he pulled himself up on his crutch from the ditch he had been helping to dig, just inside the barricade. He stumped over to the log benches where the workers were receiving soup and ryebread from the Noonvale communal kitchens and sat down next to Brome, who looked just as exhausted as if he had been in the battle himself. As a kindly-looking vole handed them bowls of the steaming leek and parsley soup, little Jegg appeared out of nowhere and planted himself at Ashleg's side. Opposite them sat Caelan, Ley and a few other squirrels, and Tiole. Ashleg had been noticing with a growing discomfort that the brash young otter was spending more and more time around Caelan.

For a little while there was silence as the hungry labourers dug into the good food gladly. Then Ley and Brome struck up a conversation – the squirrel had been helping in the infirmary that morning – and the others joined in, but Ashleg kept his peace. He didn't feel much like talking.

After a minute, Tiole looked at the pine marten and said suspiciously, "You're very quiet today, marten."

"Oh, Tiole," began Caelan, but then Jegg piped up in his friend's defence. "Mista Ashleg's sad! He slayed a rat to rescue me!"

Ashleg smiled faintly at Jegg's indignant tone, but Tiole snorted disbelievingly. "Huh, why would you care, pine marten, I'd bet my whiskers you've killed many helpless creatures in your time – "

Suddenly furious, Ashleg swung up and drew his dagger, stepping nose to nose with Tiole. "_What would you know?_" he yelled. "You think it's easy for me? Is that what you think? All my life I've lived with that guilt, and now I'm trying to put things right, some otter thinks he knows what I care about!"

The paw that held his dagger was shaking with anger. The woodlanders seated around them stared silently at the confrontation, but then Ashleg felt a firm paw on his shoulder. He turned to see Ballaw de Quincewold, who said quietly, "Put down the knife, Ashleg."

The pine marten closed his eyes for a second, trying to quell the fury coursing through his bones, and slowly handed his weapon hilt-first to the hare.

"You're going to have to come with me, sah," grunted Ballaw reluctantly. Ashleg followed him, paws clenched, away from the shocked ring of spectators.

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Ashleg lay on his bed. He was being guarded, he knew; it had been stupid to let Tiole get to him. In one moment of rashness he'd undone most of his approval in the eyes of the Noonvale elders…

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Tiole staggered back as Caelan's fist cracked against his jaw. "You _idiot_!" she screamed at him. "You can never keep your filthy mouth shut, can you?"

The other otter lay on his back on the ground, rubbing his sore cheek and moaning quietly. Ley put a paw on her friend's shoulder. "Leave him, Caelan," she said. "He's not worth it."

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"Let me in, Jollen!" argued Brome at the door of Ashleg's hut. "Come on, I need to see him."

The pale-faced hedgehog shook his head. "Sorry, Brome. Chieftain Voh's orders, no one can see the vermin until his fate's been decided."

"This is stupid!" the healer mouse burst out. "It's not as if he actually _did _ anything, it was that Tiole –"

"Hey," said Jollen, "I'm not the one making the rules."

"No, you're not," said Brome grimly. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he walked away.

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Tesey sat atop the barricade, looking to the east and perceiving with her seer's eyes the camp of the vermin horde. A shiver ran down the old otter's spine as she saw the destruction they would wreak, in one possible future. She turned and looked behind her at the guarded hut on the slopes. It was obvious that Voh's stubbornness to change his views was the first step down that path…

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Aryah paced around her kitchen, paws clasped with nervousness as she listened to her husband and only son shout in the next room. The loudness of their yells seemed to suggest they would be at each other's throats any moment. The mousewife could not remember either of them being so angry before, especially Brome. A growing dread was in Aryah's heart; was this war tearing apart her family, just as war had torn her daughter from her?

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"Why won't you believe me?" yelled Brome. "I'm your son, _Chieftain Voh_! Surely that counts for something?"

The patriarch mouse had long ago abandoned trying to calm his son down. "Brome, I have to do what is right for _all_ of Noonvale! Making rash decisions on your word will do nothing!"

"You think I can't see things for myself, Father, but I can! You can't ignore me forever!"

"Brome, you're young, inexperienced – "

"_I'm not a Dibbun!"_ Brome screamed. Urran Voh stared at his son in the short silence which followed.

"I grew up a long time ago, Father! Don't tell me I'm young and stupid, I saw more death in the Marshank War than you could ever imagine! You tore yourself apart after Rose was killed, but it never occurred to you that perhaps it would affect _me _as well!"

Voh said nothing, but his face was still as stone, the face of someone who is just realising the terrible mistakes he has made.

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Tynos stood on guard outside the Owlrider's tent, chewing on a roasted pigeon's leg from the main campfire. When he had finished, he sat down with his whetstone and proceeded to sharpen the huge scimitar he always carried with him. It needed attending to after the battle. He shivered with excitement remembering it; the bloodlust of war, the power of his curved sword in his strong paws – Tynos lived for battle, and he was eagerly anticipating the next clash with the woodlanders. It had just been too bad that those little spiky-furred things had driven them back at the last minute.

He thought of the strange moment in the battle when he had looked up and seen the Owlrider on the huge eagle owl. In that split second the fox had noticed something, almost subconsciously, wrong. The feeling tied in with other tiny anomalies about the Owlrider Tynos had noted over the seasons he had been in the horde. It wasn't much of anything to go on, but something about his leader had always seemed – well, not right. During his seasons as a mercenary, Tynos had seen plenty of insane warlords and gangsters; sick, twisted creatures with no reason at all. But Owlrider was different – simply too mysterious.

For one thing, nobeast had ever actually seen the Owlrider's face. From what he had gathered of the ramblings of the oldest hordebeasts, the day their leader had come he had been covered by a black hood and robe. But when the small band of vermin, as they had been then, had challenged this newcomer – he had killed their leader mercilessly and taken over by force, all without revealing his face. Since then the Owlrider had formed, disciplined and added to the horde, ruling with an iron grip and leading the vermin into many successful conquests.

Or maybe it was something about the way the Owlrider moved; gracefully, sinuously, carrying himself in a different way to any other. Tynos shook his head and put down the scimitar, resuming his position by the tent.

A/N: Please review! I hope Tynos' musings weren't too long. Some feedback on Brome + Urran Voh would be great.


	9. The Council

Sorry for the big delay; I've been on holiday and stuff, so it's taken me a while to write this chapter. Thanks for all your reviews - kareah, saber-otter, Nirin Tani, Snuff-Snuff, Stardust-Memory, Billios and Kristiesuul.

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter Nine: The Council

The weasel brooded at the edge of the camp, nursing the gash he had acquired in the battle. It had been some crazy otter with a shining sword – he remembered its face clearly, in the strange sharp clarity of terror. It was sheer luck that Blackeyes had stumbled in front of the weasel and, in his own death, saved his comrade from being cut down by that huge sword.

The weasel was starting to regret what he had done. As the Owlrider's principal spy, he was supposed to keep watch on the target night and day, and inform his master of _anything_ he thought would affect the invasion.

Well, he'd kept watch. He had known about the shrews, the pine marten's intervening in the plan-making, the gathering of all the species in the vale – but he hadn't told Owlrider. Let the warlord make his mistakes – it would be the weasel's revenge for all the suffering he had been put through. Owlrider seldom left his tent when the horde was encamped; he relied totally on the weasel for his information. So when he should have waited, he blundered into battle; when a vale-dweller was responsible for the revealing of the decoy plan, Owlrider had had the decoys themselves flogged for incompetence; when he'd counted on only around five score fighting beasts to defend the valley, there had been many more.

As it was, the weasel regretted that last. Maybe if the Owlrider had known about the squirrels and shrews, this injury on his arm would be non-existent.

"Ach," the weasel muttered to himself. "No use now, is it?"

Two other vermin, sat closer to the main fire, overheard his murmuring. The stoat, obviously drunk, giggled helplessly while leaning on his companion, a rat with a sour expression.

"Heehee, ole weashely-face's goin' off 'ish rocker, eh, Romun, eh, eh?"

Romun slapped him away irritably. "Shut yer gob, Twistpaw, y'drunken fool! It's not that slime's sanity I'm worried about, it's the Owlrider's, picking '_im _for chief spy. Everybeast in this 'orde knows he couldn't spy on a woodlouse and get away wi' it!"

Twistpaw looked at him blankly, then seemed to decide his rum held the answer to this puzzling metaphor.

"In fact," the rat continued obliviously, "the Owlrider's never done what's best for us normal 'ordebeasts. It's all right for that weasel, and Tynos and even the _owl_ – they're 'is favourites. Our lot's just to go die pointlessly in battle, like Blackeyes the other day."

"Yesh," said Twistpaw mournfully, clutching the neck of his bottle. "Pore ole Blackie. What a way t'go – cut down by 'ish own shord. That otter snatched it off 'im when 'e tried to kill 'er. Wi' her bare pawsh!"

"An' then there was Moss," Romun continued dourly. "Died after that whippin' he got when the woodlanders got wind o' the decoy. I tell ye, Twistpaw, 'twas cruel, cruel."

The stoat burst into drunken sobs. "Boohoo! Ole Mossy were a great one for the talesh, so 'e was. An' free wi' 'is beer, too." Twistpaw drowned his sniffles in the rapidly depleting alcohol.

"What kind of a warlord is Owlrider anyway?" Romun ranted on. "If 'e were any good 'ed a-known about them shrewy things. An' then there were all them squirrels too, we never got told about them!"

"Ah – Romun – yoush should turn around – " stammered Twistpaw, looking with wide eyes over his companion's shoulder.

"What in 'ell you gabblin' about now, Twistpaw? Anyway…" the rat was about to carry on when he felt the cold steel of a scimitar hard against his back.

Tynos' sibilant voice snaked out from the darkness behind him. "It's not good to insult the Owlrider, my friend. You might just find you get more than you bargained for." He hauled the hapless rat away with one move, and Twistpaw was left alone by the fire. He looked around for Romun, shrugged, and took the rat's ale.

Romun was flung on his face in the dirt. Groaning with fear, he took a surreptitious look around him. He was in the Owlrider's tent.

Suddenly a strong paw gripped his neck and drew him up to look, shaking, into the darkness of a hood. A rasping voice issued from the cowl.

"Insubordinate! Mutineer! Such a creature has no place in my horde. You will be sent away." A chuckle. "Far, far away."

Owlrider dropped Romun, who looked up as a withered paw lowered the hood. The rat only had time for a stunned "Fiery 'ellgates..." before something gleamed between his eyes and pain shattered him into a million tiny pieces.

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That same night, a ring of chairs was set up in Noonvale's Council House. Urran Voh, Skipper Helmhard, Chieftain Srike of the shrews and the other tribal leaders sat in the circle, as well as Brome, Aryah, Tesey, Ballaw and Rowanoak. A mouse scribe bent over a desk in the corner to record the meeting.

Ley and Caelan crouched on the roof, peering in at the council through a gap in the thatch as the conference began.

"Friends," began Voh, "I have had you gather here tonight to decide what we must do about the pine marten Ashleg. I think you will agree with me that we should deal with inner problems before we can think clearly about the vermin invasion."

Ley saw the scorn on Brome's face; he obviously thought this just a cowardly way of avoiding the real problem. She herself tended to think likewise.

Ballaw the hare stood, clearing his throat. "Ahem. As you ordered, Chieftain Voh, Ashleg was restricted when he threatened an otter of Skipper Helmhard's company, Tiole. I don't know the marten very well, sah. But I have to ask myself, did the punishment bally fit the crime? The young 'un was quite unharmed."

Foremole Urthcairn spoke up. "Hurr, e'em got quoite a bruise on 'is jaw, las' time oi saw 'im."

Ley looked at her companion. Caelan grinned.

"Er," coughed Skipper Helmhard, in a rare moment of embarrassment. "That wasn't the pine marten, Urthcairn, it was Caelan Riversword, one of my warriors. She's got quite friendly with Ashleg while 'e's been 'ere." The chief's expression showed what he thought of that friendship.

"Nevertheless, it has shown that the marten is unstable and could lash out at any time," continued Voh doggedly. "I say we – "

"_Unstable_?" came Brome's incredulous voice. The previously shy mouse stood, gazing around at the council boldly. "I'm the healer, and I say Ashleg is perfectly sane. Tiole provoked him, insulted him. Any creature would have done the same in the circumstances!"

"You are saying, Brome," growled Rowanoak, "that this _vermin_ is the same as any goodbeast in this valley? When he admits to have been formerly a member of a horde?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," said Brome, but he was looking straight at his father when he said it.

Ley, for the first time, found herself consciously agreeing with the young mouse's words. He was right; Ashleg was as honest as any squirrel or otter or mouse, more so than some.

Rowanoak said no more, a thoughtful expression on her striped face. Brome continued, saying, "Is this even a fair trial, _Father_? Presenting evidence without even having the accused here to defend himself?"

Aryah covered her eyes with a paw. Rising from her chair, she turned to leave; but before she went, she addressed the council. "I don't know the truth of this Ashleg business, but I do know that there is a vermin army camped out there, and good creatures have already died because of them! Is this really what you should be discussing at this time?" And she swept from the room.

Desperately Voh asked, "Tesey, what do you think? Have your visions told you anything of this matter?"

The old otter turned her head to face the patriarch. She waited a while before speaking.

"Urran Voh, you speak not out of wisdom but stubbornness. Many of my visions recently have involved the pine marten; but they are confused and I have had not the insight to unravel them yet. Aryah was right – our problem right now is the horde. It is the way of a vermin warlord to rely on a seer's visions, Voh! They are too unreliable and are often misinterpreted. We need to concentrate on the here and now. Listen to your son, your councillors, your warriors. If you cannot do this, I dare not share my foresights, for fear they would lead Noonvale and all its creatures down a path of destruction."

There was a stunned silence.

Then suddenly Brome looked up to the roof. Ley's eyes locked with his. She put a paw to her mouth to urge him to be quiet. He nodded slightly, then rose from his chair and left the House.

As noiselessly as they could, Caelan and Ley slipped down from the roof. Brome whispered, "Did you hear all that?"

Ley nodded. It was Brome who had alerted them to the secret council about Ashleg's fate in the first place.

"We should tell Ashleg," said Caelan. The other two agreed, and they stole up to the guarded hut where he was being kept.

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Ashleg gazed down at the parchment and his broken, messy handwriting. Although his mother had painstakingly taught him to read and write when he was young, Ashleg had never paid much attention to the lessons, and now he wished he had.

Brome had absently left some writing materials in his room another time, and in his boredom and frustration, Ashleg had decided to write down an account of his life. He had just about got to when he left home and travelled south.

Suddenly there was a tap at the window and he snapped round. Caelan's face was behind the glass, alternately gesturing for him to be silent and pointing to the window-catch.

Ashleg got his crutch and crept to the window, trying not to alert the guard at his door. When he'd got it open, in climbed Caelan, her squirrel friend Ley, and Brome.

"What is it?" he whispered. Ley quickly informed him of all that had gone on at the Council House.

"We don't know what'll happen," said Brome grimly. "But Voh" Ashleg noticed he refused to acknowledge the patriarch as his father "will probably take some convincing, if we can persuade him at all."

"It would be best to get you out of here," Caelan said seriously. Ashleg was amazed – these creatures were ready to break the Noonvale laws and risk punishment for him. It was a good feeling, but he worried for their safety.

"But you – don't concern yourselves for me," he said anxiously. Caelan stared at him.

"That's what friends do, isn't it?" she asked.

There was a long moment, then Ashleg gripped her paw.

"Yes. Friends." They shook paws – the first confirmation, Ashleg realised, of their alliance.

"Come on!" said Brome urgently. "Where should we take him, Caelan? The woods, maybe?"

"No," said Ley. "Too dangerous, what with the army out there still."

"Tesey's tunnels," said Caelan abruptly. "She'd help us, and no one goes there unless they know her well or she's invited them. It'll give Brome time to sort things out with Voh."

The others quickly agreed. Ashleg carefully got out of the window, and the four creatures made their way swiftly under the cover of darkness to the entrance of Tesey's dwelling.

A/N: Yay! Ashleg is free! R&R people.


	10. The Hunt

Hi again! Really sorry for the loooong delay, please forgive me? Thanks all of you for your amazing reviews.

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter Ten: The Hunt

It was ironic, thought Caelan as she looked out over the valley in the bright noon sun; that the first time Noonvale faced a direct threat, its first consideration should not be either attack, nor defence, but to deal with a crisis within. A crisis which could never have been anticipated. Or maybe it wasn't ironic – maybe it was just as well. For the indigenous Noonvalers, who lived there all four seasons round and counted it their true home; well, for them, a war like this was an alarming concept, which could only be dealt with by depending almost entirely on the counsel of others. The otter, squirrel and shrew tribes dealt with dangerous circumstances for most of their lives, the season and a half at Noonvale being a welcomed respite from the risky nomad life. But what if the vermin had come during the seasons the tribes were away? Caelan shuddered to think of it. Voh and his councillors could not have held out for long. In fact, it was doubtful they'd have even survived the decoy attack. One of Tesey's favourite sayings was 'A rainbow cannot exist without both sunshine and rain'. Caelan thought she now knew what the elderly seer meant. Urran Voh's ideal of a community of complete peace and harmony was admirable, and certainly very attractive; but it could never be attained without struggles and discord, whether large or small.

But she couldn't think this deep for long right now, Caelan reminded herself. There were things to be dealt with, in the here and now.

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Urran Voh had had a sleepless night, wondering what in all the fates he was supposed to do in the coming conflict. But for all his musings, the answer was no clearer that midday than it had been the previous night. The ageing mouse stood, paws behind his back, at the stone on the hill over Noonvale, looking out over his vale as he waited.

Soon, a group of figures from the other end of the valley approached him. They climbed the hill and faced Urran over in front of the stone – Brome, Caelan Riversword, Ashleg and Tesey. That other squirrel, Ley, was nowhere to be seen, he noted.

At first, when Urran had found out the pine marten had gone missing, he'd been angry. But as he was about to issue a search party, Brome had come back to the house and explained – coolly and without emotion – that he and his friends had rescued Ashleg and were now in a safe place. He hadn't said where. But it seemed that Ashleg had requested a peaceful meeting with Voh, to present his case and ask for a pardon. Urran had agreed; but he was surprised to see the elderly seer in the group.

"Tesey," he greeted her gravely, bowing his head briefly. As usual, the otter didn't return the welcome – even before all this had started, she'd never been the politest of beasts. She stopped on the other side of the stone, Ashleg, Caelan and Brome staying a little behind her.

"Chieftain Voh, you know why we are here," Tesey said curtly. "I told you at the council that I could not share my visions while this inner strife goes on; that still stands. But we both know that age such as ours brings wisdom – even," she said acidly, "if yours has been temporarily blinded."

Urran stiffened. Normally, no Noonvaler would even have thought of insulting him so – but after all, this was Tesey. She was a paradox, a mystery, and most definitely a law unto herself. Allowances had to be made for the extraordinarily gifted.

"So," the otter continued, "I feel bound to advise you, Chieftain – things are conspiring that even I cannot see." Here Tesey became almost agitated, the first time Urran had ever seen her so. "Ashleg's coming here was not pure chance. "Neither was this Owlrider's. The clouds are gathering, and I fear…"

As her voice trailed off, Ashleg stepped up and put a paw on her shoulder. "Thanks, Tesey, but I can go on from here."

The old otter moved his paw away from her, but gently, without reprimand, and turned away. Ashleg faced Urran Voh, his scarred face completely unreadable. For the first time, the mouse chieftain really noticed the reach of the disfigurement, and had to keep from wincing at the thought of the pain it must have caused.

"Chieftain Voh," said Ashleg, putting a paw to his heart in a gesture Urran did not know. "I know you consider me a threat to the peace of your valley, which I respect. I know you worked hard, and suffered personal tragedy, to get the stability you had before I came. But I promise you that I seek only the same peace now. I was, until a few months ago, the advisor to a warlord, and I accept and admit I killed innocent creatures during that time. That part of my life is over now, and I do truly regret it. I haven't done anything since I came here that merits punishment. What I ask now is: will you forget my appearance, and my past, and acknowledge me for who I am now?"

Urran didn't know what to say to that. None of his former plans seemed to make sense any more. Hardly able to look the marten in the eye, he took a breath to try and speak –

And then a shriek split the air.

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Tynos shouldered his gleaming axe and made off for the west end of the camp at a fast trot. But as he passed a ditch close to the Owlrider's tent, his eye was drawn to a pitiful, bloodied, crumpled figure curled in the muddy rut. He looked closer, and saw with shock and a touch of macabre satisfaction that it was the spy weasel, almost certainly dead.

"Hah!" He spat on the prone weasel. "Justice has caught you at last, scum."

Tynos wasn't stupid. He'd known about the weasel's petty withholding of information from his master, and had done some spying himself in the last few days. Only yesterday, well, he might have accidentally let slip something that condemned the idiot weasel. The Owlrider had no mercy for traitors.

But as the grinning fox turned away, the weasel in the gutter moved. Tynos watched in horror as, blood streaming down his face, the weasel dragged himself up, his face twisted with a demented, agonised hate. His mutilated paw – several claws missing – reached to his waist, and Tynos saw with astonishment that he still had a dagger at his side. The weasel threw it, the very action squeezing his eyes shut in pain.

Tynos looked in bewilderment at the serrated blade growing from his shoulder joint. Then, with a roar of fury, he swung his battleaxe and cleaved the dying weasel in two.

For a heartbeat he stood there, pain and anger clouding his head. But then his mind took control, and he got away from the scene as quickly as possible. The punishment for killing a spy was death – even though it was certainly Owlrider who had tortured him in the first place, Tynos had no doubt the Owlrider's mind was twisted enough to still order his execution.

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Caelan's heart stopped for a beat as she looked down the hill.

Down by the waterfall, a group of vermin emerged from the trees, blades in paw. One had the Chief's wife Aryah with a sword across her throat – it was she who had screamed. A golden figure, double shortswords flashing in the sun, was trying furiously to fight her way to the centre; it was Treequeen Kayja. Other Noonvale warriors had noticed the commotion and were running to the battle.

Brome gave a strangled sound and dashed off down the hill unarmed, with no regard for his own safety. Caelan unsheathed her sword and bounded after him. Her heart pounded; how could the vermin have got so close? To strike so near to the heart of the vale? Visions of disaster sprung into her mind, almost as if she had inherited her aunt's gifts. What if there were more attackers elsewhere? What if one of the principal tribe leaders was killed? What in all the earth would Urran Voh do if his wife was taken from him, when he had already lost so much?

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The calamity hit Ashleg at the same time, but he managed to stay calm. His long seasons as a tactician had not been for nothing; instinctively he swept the tree line all around the valley for signs of lurking hordebeasts, and caught a glimpse of a red headband and black fur up on the west side. He yelled to Caelan and pointed, and she nodded, dashing off through the houses to hold them off with a bunch of otters. He took a swift estimate of the vermin's numbers: there weren't so many of them this time for some reason, and it looked like the Noonvalers would be able to deal with them easily enough.

Ashleg turned quickly to Urran Voh, who was staring down at the conflict in utter shock. "Get down to the houses and make sure all the warriors are out," he said. They might not need all of them to hold back this sudden attack, but it would be useful to have everyone's opinion on exactly how the assailants had got right into the valley without being noticed.

But as he ushered Voh, who was too shocked to protest at him giving orders, down the hill, out of the corner of his eye something moved. A small thing, blue and brown – but when he looked round at the trees where he'd seen it, it wasn't there.

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The vermin were soon driven off. It seemed their only target had been to cause panic, not directly overrun the valley. Ashleg was puzzled at the strange tactics of the enemy; they were effective, but totally nonsensical. They followed none of the usual patterns.

Caelan stood nearby, cleaning her sword diligently. But as soon as she sheathed it, another otter came running up to her. Ashleg vaguely recognised her as one of Caelan's closer relatives.

"Caelan – I can't find him, he's not anywhere, I looked all over the valley –"

"Holle, calm down!" exclaimed his friend. "Who are you talking about?"

"Jegg," gasped Holle. "He's gone missing, I lost track of him when Scira went off to fight the vermin…"

Something cold clawed its way into Ashleg's throat. It grasped his windpipe with icy paws and squeezed hard so he could hardly breathe…

Caelan put her arms around her cousin as she sobbed into her shoulder, and as he shook himself from the shock that gripped him, Ashleg couldn't help but notice the first person she looked at was him. Her dark eyes were wide with the same cold disbelief he felt.

Then, suddenly, a jolt of clear recognition ran through Ashleg's body. He almost lost his grip on his crutch as he remembered – that small figure he'd half-seen before! Last time he'd seen his little friend, he'd been wearing a blue smock. It _must_ have been Jegg.

"Caelan!" He stumped over to her and explained what he'd seen. Brome was nearby and turned to listen. When Ashleg had finished talking, he nodded. "He must have run into the forest. A Dibbun would probably panic at the battle."

"But that's in the direction of the vermin camp!" wailed Holle.

"We have to go and find him," said Caelan, looking at her companions seriously. Ashleg and Brome nodded.

"It'll be best if we go straight away," suggested Ashleg. "Then there's a better chance of finding him before something bad happens, and anyway, your father might not want you to go, Brome."

Caelan nodded her assent and gently sat Holle down. "Holle, we're going to go and find Jegg. Try not to worry, we'll find him in no time. Just wait and see."

The tearful otter smiled tremulously. "Thank you."

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A little later, Brome, Caelan and Ashleg stood at the wood's edge, making final checks that they had everything they might need. But just as they were about to set off, Ley came up, also holding a haversack.

"Ley, what are you doing?" asked Caelan.

"Coming with you," said the small squirrel busily, fastening her rucksack round her thin shoulders. "I know the little otter's missing, and – well," she looked straight at Ashleg, "I wanted to help. You're a good creature, Ashleg, and I'd be proud to throw in my lot with you."

There was silence for a second, and Ashleg smiled. "Thanks, Ley. It'll certainly be easier with more searchers."

And with that, the small, odd search party entered the forest.


	11. The Madness

Thanks to all you wonderful reviewers, you've no idea how much your comments help!

R&R, and enjoy chapter 11.

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter Eleven: The Madness

The summer forest should have been beautiful; green leaves formed a canopy above their heads, flowers bloomed quietly in the roots of trees, the odd butterfly flickered past. But there was something in the air, something that stank of menace, that destroyed the image.

Ashleg, Brome, Caelan and Ley trekked through the wood, wary and alert for any sudden movement or sound. They occasionally called out Jegg's name, but so far had had no answer. The pine marten was painfully aware of the danger of wandering in the forest when they might be close to the vermin camp. He kept one paw on his dagger, just in case.

"Look!" cried Ley suddenly as they rounded a corner into a sunny glade. She ran over to a muddy patch in the grass, and pointed. There, clear in the mud, was a small otter paw-print. Ashleg stumped over and carefully bent down to see it.

"About half an hour old, I'd say," he said, looking up at Caelan for her opinion. The otter agreed and the four creatures set off again in the vague direction of the print, searching around for more indications of Jegg's passing through.

------------------------------

The Owlrider lay in the darkness of the tent, plagued by visions.

Blood-red eyes screamed in the night of Owlrider's dreams. A fox pointed off into the west and swirled back into oblivion. A silhouette arose on the horizon of a pine marten, carrying a sword. Rage was struck into the Owlrider's heart as an arrow pierced it. The father shouted again and again, and ear-splitting cracks rent the water into drops of black blood dripping from a wound. The world died and was born. A thousand screams merged into one and were lost into death.

Madness!

You were not once like this.

I was, she was, he was, they were and the screaming of a father…

Hold on to sanity! Hold on! Cling to the last remnants of a shattered mind that has been torn by death!

I can't. Can I?

The pine marten is coming!

------------------------------

Tynos heard the moans and the screams, and wondered again who – or what – in all the fates he had bound himself to serving.

------------------------------

The searchers wandered all through the day, but nothing much more was found other than some prints that assured Ashleg they were going in the right direction. At nightfall, they found a good spot beneath a spreading oak and set up camp.

As they sat together, eating from the scant supplies they had been able to procure in their hurried exit from Noonvale, the conversation turned to the war.

"I wonder who the vermin are taking orders from," Brome mused aloud. "Surely it would be best if we could cut off the head of the snake, as it were? Back in the Marshank War –" and his voice cracked ever so slightly "that's what Martin did, killing the warlord. After that the horde mostly just gave up."

Ashleg nodded, thinking back himself. Here he was again, the mouse Martin. The pine marten could only just remember him, as an angry captive back in the days of Verdauga Greeneyes. There was no doubt his campaign had been the instrument that led to Tsarmina's going mad. If he had fought a war and won it up here, as well, Ashleg thought, they could certainly do with his help now!

He realised Caelan was talking to him, and shook himself from the reverie.

"What is it, Ashleg?" she asked curiously.

"I was just thinking, if that Martin wasn't fighting a war in Mossflower –"

"What?" asked Brome, incredulous. "You know of Martin?"

"Only really as an enemy. My _former_" and he stressed the word out of habit "mistress is having to deal with him causing an uprising among the Mossflower woodlanders."

Brome looked uplifted and saddened at the same time by this news. "Yes," he said quietly, "he had always hated slavery."

Ashleg didn't enquire further to this remark.

------------------------------

Owlrider's maddened dreams stopped abruptly, leaving one vision crystal clear in the mind's eye.

Tynos heard the screaming of his name, and immediately went to receive orders. He understood, bowed to his master, and went out to gather a tracking group from the horde. They struck off north-west into the forest, silent and stealthy, carrying out the commands of the insane warlord.

A/N: Yes, I know it was a bit random, but it was meant to be one of those in-betweeny sort of chapters where nothing much happens... :)


	12. The Deception

So sorry for the long delay! Thank you, all reviewers, for the lovely long reviews and support.

This is probably my favourite chapter so far (maybe apart from The Valley), it was good fun to write - enjoy!

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter Twelve: The Deception

Jegg was tired. He'd been walking for_ ages_. It was dark now. Why hadn't anyone come and found him yet? Mama always came to look for him if he wandered off.

He'd thought it would be better out in the forest. The nasty creatures who had come into his home without asking had scared him, so he'd run to the safety of the green trees. But now he couldn't find his way back, and there was no one to help him get home. Why hadn't they found him? Jegg sat down at the roots of a large tree and sulked. Big otters should be able to find little ones. It was their job.

------------------------------

Ashleg sat at the edge of the fire, trying to stay awake.

It was his watch, and he'd only been awake half an hour at most. But his old wounds were aching in the balmy night, and he was distracted by the odd, sharp stabs of pain lancing through his torso along the twisted scar lines. He shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable – but then he doubled up and hissed a curse as agony seized him around the waist. It was always worse on humid, warm nights like this.

He slowly eased himself back upright and leant against the oak tree, breathing heavily. As the pain faded, he heard something out in the forest.

Ashleg froze, listening hard. There was silence, apart from the soft rustling of leaves overhead. But he had heard something out of the ordinary, he was absolutely sure of it.

He listened for a few minutes more, hearing nothing. Eventually he gave up and relaxed his alertness. A woodpigeon cooed somewhere off to the west.

And then the night exploded as dark shapes bounded into the clearing from the undergrowth, blades gleaming in the moonlight. Ashleg yelled in shock and started upwards, grabbing the first blade that came to paw – and fell back screaming as his damaged body refused to obey him. A cloaked figure stood over him, drawing back a club to knock him out.

Too late he realised: _No woodpigeons at night _–

------------------------------

Consciousness came slowly, and for while, the comatose Ashleg wandered between death and the barrier that kept him from returning to his senses. His mind went haywire, shooting images and feelings through him at random. He tried to open his eyes, but darkness kept them closed, and panic brought him out of the unconsciousness as he remembered waking up after the healers had taken his infected leg –

With a great effort, Ashleg flickered his eyelids and light, blessed light, flooded into his mind. His tensed limbs relaxed.

There was a dull ache in his stump of a leg. It felt like the wooden peg had slipped loose as well. For a second Ashleg was thrown back to a dark day at Kotir, where Tsarmina had commanded him to run in front of the army. It had almost killed him. An unfounded, senseless fear gripped his chest – could it be her? Could Tsarmina have tracked him down and taken him and the others captive?

Of course, he was being stupid. How could Tsarmina have followed him in the first place? And anyway, she wouldn't bother with him. To her, he was only an ageing, dim-witted servant of her father's.

Breaking out of his wandering thoughts, Ashleg tried to move. But all his paws were bound and his mouth gagged. He blinked again, trying to see though the daze of light. There were no trees to be seen; a huge brown shape in front of him appeared to be some kind of tent. He was lying on hard, dry ground and he instinctively knew there was another canvas roof above his head. If he strained to hear, the sounds of creatures talking and the clank of weapons were coming from outside the tent somewhere. There was no doubt about it; this was the vermin camp, and Ashleg was a prisoner.

His head throbbed. He knew if he tried to move much more, his wounds would protest – and he could remember all too well the pain they caused him when he over-stretched himself. But he couldn't see Caelan, Ley or Brome from where he lay, and he had to know if they were alive.

Preparing himself, Ashleg took a deep breath – and wrenched his body over so he was facing the other way. Agony ripped through him and he cried out, but the pain had not been for nothing; he could see Brome's light brown fur, and beyond him the bright colours of Caelan's clanmarks. Ashleg sighed in relief.

But then he heard footsteps, and in his peripheral vision he could see a black ferret entering the tent. The scrawny-looking vermin walked over to Ashleg and nudged him lightly with a footpaw. "Yer awake, then. Took ye long enough. What were ye doin' with this sorry lot then, eh, mate?"

Ashleg stared dumbly back up at his captor for a second. Of course, he probably looked as bad and worse as many vermin in the horde – why wouldn't this ferret wonder at his apparent association with the woodlanders?

But, he realised, this was a situation he could turn to his advantage. The ferret looked rather simple, likely to judge mainly on appearances; if he could spin a reasonable story, the creature might be persuaded to release him.

He faked a coughing fit to give himself time to think. There were many possible alibis running through his head, but none of them would explain him staying in a woodlander camp. Even as he thought of and discarded ideas at lightning speed, he realised that if this horde was anything like the ones he'd been in, the common beasts' fear of their leader would probably prevent them from acting against his word.

He had to use that fear against them. But how?

Then, as he cleared his throat, inspiration came. What had Tesey told him was the horde leader's name? Owlrider, that was it.

"You fool," he growled at the ferret. "Untie me at once. I need to see the Owlrider."

The ferret looked confused for a second. Then he guffawed loudly. "Hah, y'don't fool me. That's the oldest trick there is."

"Idiot!" snarled Ashleg. "Did you _really _think I was with them?" He gestured to his unconscious friends. "I'm the Owlrider's spy, his special envoy, dirtbrain. I need to speak with him, _now_. He won't be happy if he hears I was kept against my will."

The ferret's eyes widened and he went pale under his scraggy fur. "The – the Owlrider's special envoy?"

"That's what I said, ferret."

"Sorry, sir, sorry! I had orders – " The ferret sprang to, untying Ashleg's bonds with clumsy paws. "Don't mention me to the Owlrider, please sir – "

Ashleg got to his feet, grabbing his crutch from where it had been thrown. He stumped imperiously out of the tent, brushing the gabbling ferret aside irritably.

It was dawn now, and the main activity of the camp was over to the west, where a large fire was smouldering and breakfast was being distributed to the hordebeasts. Ashleg looked around carefully, taking down a mental plan of the camp for later use.

Vermin were beginning to drift away from their meal, so it wouldn't be practical to attempt a rescue of his friends at the moment, although it would be easy enough to slip away into the forest and hide. He could try to free the others once the coast was clear.

But involuntarily, Ashleg remembered several things; the flash of the sun on Caelan's golden sword as she fought, the joy in Urran Voh's eyes when he spoke of his dreams of a wholly peaceful Noonvale, the grim tone in Tesey's voice when she spoke of her visions. The memory of the burial service after the first clash with the horde.

Somehow, it now felt like his duty to help end this war in any way he could. He didn't reckon anyone would recognise him – after all, it had been night when he was captured, and the attackers wouldn't have looked too closely at his face. The only creature who had really seen him was now convinced he was of special rank.

Turning on his one remaining heel, Ashleg made his way into the heart of the camp.


	13. The Revelation

I'm really sorry about the long wait for this. And when you get to the end of chapter thirteen you'll probably hate me. I had great fun writing the end. Thanks for all the reviews anyway, I really appreciate them!

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter Thirteen: The Revelation

It was time. At long, long last, it was time.

------------------------------

Caelan gasped as she was wrenched back into consciousness by a shower of cold water. As she spluttered and tried to shake the moisture from her fur, a group of vermin wrenched her up and, untying her ankles, marched her with Brome and Ley from the tent in which they had been held captive. The sunlight hurt her eyes and she squinted around, trying to figure out where they were being taken.

All around her, vermin moved in the same direction. As far as Caelan could see, there was some kind of large gathering up ahead. It was all focused around one point – a tent, she saw as her sight cleared of sunspots. A dark-coloured tent, in direct contrast to the dun canvas all around. Caelan guessed this was the abode of the horde leader, whoever he was.

They were being taken to the warlord who had attacked Noonvale. The one Tesey had seen in her visions and been so unsettled by. The madbeast.

A few metres outside the dark tent, the three captives were forced to kneel on the ground. A hood-eyed fox with a huge battleaxe on his back stood beside the tent flap, looking menacing. He waved a paw, and the crowd quieted so the fox could speak.

"Your master the Owlrider has decreed there be an assembly!" called out the fox in a loud voice. "In the presence of you all today he will decide the fate of our captives, and of the incompetent fool that let the fourth escape. Let this be a warning to you, a warning of the ruthlessness of the Owlrider!"

The fox stepped away from the tent, and the flap moved aside. Caelan watched, her heart in her mouth, as a hooded figure walked smoothly from the darkness inside.

------------------------------

Ashleg too watched from among the crowd of vermin, leaning heavily on his crutch. He had noticed in his wanderings in the camp that the number of hordebeasts here didn't match up with the Noonvale warriors' estimates at the time of the first battle. A part of the horde was away from the camp. Most likely they were at Noonvale, Ashleg thought grimly; either attacking, or making sure nobeast left the valley. Whatever the horde leader had planned for this assembly, it was important. Ashleg readied himself near the front of the crowd with the spike-dagger he had stolen from a tent, in case there was any threat to the lives of his friends, who were kneeling bound in front of the tent.

He saw the dark-cloaked and hooded creature came out of the tent. The body and face were swathed in cloth and shadowed, so it was impossible to make a proper judgement on what the creature was; but from its physique and movements, Ashleg guessed it was a vermin much like himself – probably a weasel or stoat. Maybe even a ferret, but that seemed unlikely, as the Owlrider's gait was smoother and slower than a ferret's usually was.

The Owlrider stood and faced his horde. There was total silence in the camp, and the stench of fear in the air.

Ashleg listened, frozen, as the vermin leader began to speak.

------------------------------

It was time! The voices had not lied, and he was here. All the planning had come to a head. It was time for the reckoning.

------------------------------

Skipper Helmhard and Treequeen Kayja stood near the Noonvale barricade, looking out grimly. Only around an hour ago, a second barrier had been set up around the vale; a ring of vermin, not attacking or retreating – just sitting, and watching. Ensuring everyone stayed inside the valley.

Kayja shook her head. "Skip, I've a bad feeling about this whole thing. What reason would they have for keeping us cooped up like this?"

The burly otter looked at her. "I don't know, old friend. I really don't know. The only clue we 'ave is the pine marten an' 'is friends disappearin'. It looks bad for the vermin from where I'm standing."

"But if he had gone to join the horde, why would he have taken Brome and the others?" sighed Kayja, frustrated. They had been over this argument too many times. "I tell you what, Skipper. We need to work out some way of turning this to our advantage. The vermin out there aren't very alert, and there's quite a few of them. With some archers and slingers, we could significantly reduce the number we're up against."

Helmhard nodded, seeing her plan. "But I don't think Voh would like it. Killin' creatures in cold blood an' all that."

"It's virtually the only option we have at the moment," Kayja reminded him gravely. "I'm not willing to risk my squirrels and all the rest on weak principles. Are you with me, Skip?"

"Always, Treequeen."

------------------------------

Urran Voh rubbed his face with both paws, trying to stave off sleep for a while more. He was exhausted, with physical and emotional exertion. Worry and fear gnawed at his insides and a thousand 'what if's swirled around his mind.

His wife Aryah was resting at home, recovering after she had been slashed on the arm in the recent attack. Mercifully she had not suffered much else, but she was still very weak and Urran was terrified there might be another battle before she regained her strength. He hadn't yet had the heart to tell her Brome was missing.

_Oh, Brome_. Urran Voh was furious with himself. His only son – his last living child – and now Brome could die without his father ever taking back the angry words they had exchanged.

_It's all my fault_, thought Urran miserably. _I lost Rose through inaction, and now I've driven Brome away. I wouldn't blame Aryah if she left me as well. _

Without noticing, the mouse had wandered up to the small hut that had been Ashleg's, before the pine marten had vanished as well. Feeling like it was the right thing to do, Urran went slowly inside and looked around the little room.

Something caught his eye. A couple of sheets of barkpaper, like that which Brome used, and a quill pen and ink sitting on the small table by the wall. The elderly mouse went over and picked them up, starting to read the spiky scrawl of letters across the page.

**I was born in a north-west corner of Mossflower Woods, to a mother named Sylle. I had two brothers, Wildvine and Earthseed, and a sister called Roseleaf.**

Urran stared at the writing. This must be the start of some kind of account of Ashleg's life. Who would have thought the scarred pine marten had had such simple, homely beginnings?

The chieftain scanned down the paper, reading with a slightly guilty curiosity. One line caught his attention.

**My sister Roseleaf died of the cold sickness in the winter of my fourteenth season.**

The ink of the last word had run slightly in a round blotch of something on the paper. It was quite obviously the mark of a tear. Urran was suddenly saddened himself, and ashamed; he had dismissed Ashleg as an unfeeling, uncaring savage like those who had killed Rose, but it seemed he could cry for those he loved. _Like I did_, Urran Voh thought.

**I left my mother soon after that. I travelled south and joined a horde. It was the only thing left for me. **

Voh put the paper down. This was proof for him, personally, that he had made terrible mistakes. The elderly mouse now made a decision. It was time for him to repay his family and his people for how he had hurt them.

------------------------------

"I have called you all here for a reason!" came the hoarse, menacing voice from under the hood.

Ashleg listened. There was something about the voice of the Owlrider, something wrong; something he could not place.

"Today, all things have fallen into place! And it is time! It is time for you all to know the truth!"

The gathering could have been any stiller if it had been flash-frozen.

The Owlrider began to stride around in front of his audience, gesturing with shrouded paws. "Here, listening to me, there are three prisoners! And there are over a hundred hordebeasts! But where is the fourth prisoner? Where?"

Ashleg kept very still, trying to blend into the terrified horde.

"Not one of you can tell me! And so, I shall tell you!"

Ashleg's stomach turned over as the hooded figure turned slowly to face his part of the crowd. Even without seeing its eyes, he felt like it was looking directly at him.

"It is time for him also to know the truth," said the Owlrider, not shouting now. Even so, the sound carried over the dead-silent crowd.

And the Owlrider lowered its hood.


	14. The Atonement

Thanks to all reviewers! I've had you all on the edge of your seats evil laugh. Well, it is time for you to know the truth…

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter Fourteen: The Atonement

Several quickly stifled gasps sounded from the crowd as the face of the Owlrider saw the light of day. Murmuring broke out among the vermin.

Ashleg heard nothing. He was reeling from the biggest shock of his life. He simply could not believe his eyes.

The Owlrider was female.

The Owlrider was a pine marten.

And worst of all, Ashleg _recognised_ her…

------------------------------

"You _want_ us to attack?" asked Treequeen Kayja, trying unsuccessfully to conceal the surprise in her voice.

Urran Voh nodded grimly. "Yes, Treequeen. Assemble your best archers, and Skipper Helmhard's best slingers. We need to beat back this siege line and get to the vermin camp." "  
"Well –" Kayja began again, taken aback by the peaceful patriarch's sudden change in attitude, "we can get the tribes up and ready in about half an hour."

"The shrews as well? We'll need them to lead the charge after you and the Skipper have picked off most of them. I've organised a contingent of Noonvalers to go south and east, and come up at the other side of the camp in a pincer movement."

Kayja was impressed. The plan was not without faults, but Voh had obviously given it some thought. "It's a good strategy, Chieftain Voh," she said. "If you can get some of your warriors to rouse the tribes, Skip and I can fine-tune it in the time it takes for them to be ready."  
Urran Voh looked resolute. "Then let us attack, friend."

"And hope that the fates are with us," Kayja added gravely.

------------------------------

Caelan stared at the Owlrider in amazement. Well, here was something the Noonvalers had not expected! A female warlord was unusual in itself, but it appeared that the vermin horde she commanded had never actually _realised_ they were under a female.

She looked round at Ley, who looked just as stunned as she was. The otter warrior was about to speak while their guards were distracted, but behind Ley she saw a familiar face.

Ashleg stood among the motley assortment of vermin, gaping at the Owlrider. But he didn't look simply surprised. His face was white, if that was possible for a brown-furred marten, and he looked as if he had just been stabbed by a lifelong friend.

An awful thought struck Caelan. She recognised the look on the pine marten's face; it was the same one she had seen on her own mother's face, when she had found Caelan's father dead after the battle of Marshank.

Was it possible that Ashleg _knew_ the insane warlord? Could they even be – family?

------------------------------

The Owlrider spread out her scarred paws to the shocked horde, revelling in her power over the assembled beasts. Many of them, she could tell, were resistant to the idea of a female leader, mostly the older males. But they all had seen, or knew of, her decisive conquest over the former warlord. They had seen her kill. They did not dare challenge her.

"This is the truth!" The creatures at the front of the horde winced at her sudden, harsh voice. She pointed to _him_ with one gnarled claw and ordered, "Bring the one-legged one to me!"

------------------------------

Ashleg heard the order, and knew he should try something to get away. But his body was still limp with the shock, and he let himself be dragged to the front by the favour-grubbing vermin around him.

"Wildvine?" he muttered under his breath.

But no; not Wildvine. A younger, female version of his brother, with scars much like Ashleg's own over her face – a face which otherwise could have been beautiful. And as he was brought closer to the Owlrider, Ashleg realised with a jolt that the half-healed, deep gashes he was looking at were a mirror image of his own.

How in all the world could this demented young pine marten, who Ashleg realised had to be his own niece, have exactly the same scars as the brother of the father she could never have known?

------------------------------

Brome caught his breath as Ashleg was forced to kneel in front of the Owlrider. He had assumed that the pine marten had either not been captured, or been able to escape. But he was putting up no resistance to his arrest; he looked pale and drained.

The young mouse flexed his bound wrists in frustration, and nearly started with surprise. The rope gave slightly, feeling as if there was a frayed section.

Being careful not to attract any attention to himself, Brome slowly started twisting his wrists back and forth. It was slow work, but he could feel his bonds becoming a little looser with each turn. He didn't know what he would do when his paws were free, but it wouldn't take a genius to realise his chances were much better when he was unbound.

------------------------------

Tynos watched the drama unfolding from behind, marvelling at the extent he – and all the horde – had been taken in to. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't ever seen the true face of the Owlrider until now; he had suspected something about his leader, but he had never once considered the possibility she was female. And it seemed she knew this captive from the valley. Without actually stating it, the Owlrider had convinced them all that the reason for this war was so the horde had a steady power in the north; but Tynos now got the feeling that it had always been to the end of capturing this mutilated pine marten.

He had known the Owlrider had visions. Her troubled sleep and freakish premonitions of what was to come made it obvious. But could whatever insane spirit that gave her that insight have shown her something as precise as this moment, and the identity of her captive? Tynos didn't know.

He listened as the Owlrider spoke to the marten.

------------------------------

"You know who I am, Ashleg of Noonvale," said the Owlrider, almost gently. Ashleg stared up at her, trying to shake off the surreal feeling that was fogging his thoughts.

"You know who my father was. Wildvine, your own brother." She spat the name with a venomous hatred that surprised Ashleg.

"What does it matter?" he said defiantly.

The horde leader jerked as if she had been slapped. "_Everything_ depends on it!" she cried madly. "Destiny connects us. Destiny, from the moment of my birth, led up to this moment! To this reckoning!

"I don't understand," Ashleg said, playing for time. "You could never have known Wildvine; he would have stayed no longer than a season with your mother."

The Owlrider's face took on a cold look. "I knew him. By the time I was born, he was leader of a petty band of robbers. Thief scum in charge of scum. He kept my mother and me with the rest of his females, as worthless camp followers, the lowest of the low. I ran away as soon as I could."

Ashleg listened, amazed and saddened, as the terrible tale of a young life twisted came out in a torrent of words.

"I lived alone. And when I was grown, when I could use a sword, I came back and I killed him. I killed my own father! But he deserved it. He deserved it for ever siring me at all. My mother was dead by her own hand after seasons of being abused. So I murdered my father and took over his thief band.

'I made them worthy. I recruited scores and disciplined them into a proper horde. But my damned, dead father never left me alone. He whispers in my ears at night – he shows me things – " The pine marten shook her head as if trying to rid herself of the ghost of her sire. "And, Ashleg the crippled pine marten, formerly of Kotir, weak seeker after peace – he showed me you."

"And – " Ashleg nodded to her scarred face, beginning to understand.

"He made me scar myself," hissed the Owlrider in remembered pain. "Every single mutilation that had been forced on you, Ashleg, I was forced to carve into my own flesh. My own blood stained my blade. I kept my leg, but he tormented me for that. I have suffered, Ashleg my father-brother, and all for this moment."

Ashleg tensed, knowing what would come next.

"Your blood for his." The Owlrider's knuckles were as white as dead skin. "Roseleaf died in your childhood. Earthseed vanished into the east. Sylle was killed in the plague. You are the last one left who carries my father's blood. When your lifeblood stains the earth, I will be free again. Free to take the world with me into death and chaos." The light of insanity glowed in her eyes. Casting aside her cloak, the Owlrider drew the curved sword from her side and raised it high in the air.

"_No!" _ came the scream from a creature in the watching crowd. The Owlrider paused for a fatal second, confused, as Brome pulled a dagger from his guard's belt and threw it. It buried itself in the Owlrider's sword hand, and as she screamed and dropped the scimitar, a piercing war cry erupted from the edge of the camp.

Squirrels, otters and shrews poured into the camp. Brome rushed to untie Ashleg, the Owlrider spun round in fury, and the battle for Noonvale began.


	15. The Reckoning

Sorry for the delay. Thank you very much for reviews – almost at one hundred!

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter Fifteen: The Reckoning

The swathe of Noonvale fighters cut into the side of the vermin ranks, slaying dozens of the stunned hordebeasts where they stood. Screams and the coppery smell of blood rose above the battlefield and the other vermin rushed to combat these sudden invaders. The Owlrider shrieked in dreadful wrath and wrenched the dagger from her paw, leaping to cut free her eagle owl from where the terrifying creature was tethered. As Brome untied her wrists, Caelan grabbed the bloodstained knife and hurled it after the bird as the insane marten forced it into the air; but the owl's powerful wings swept up in anguish and she missed. The Owlrider and her steed skimmed the top of the battle, razor-sharp claws and beak outstretched, heading for the leaders of the charge.

Brome, shaking with the realisation that he had only just acted in time, quickly relieved Ley of her bonds. Hordebeasts rushed past the four friends into the fray, giving them no heed, and they simply stood silently for a moment, gathering their wits.

But one beast noticed them. Ashleg looked up for a moment and gave a startled cry of warning.

"Caelan, behind you!"

The warrior otter only just ducked in time. The fox Tynos stood behind her, swinging his huge battleaxe. It hit mid-air and he staggered from his own momentum, but only for a second – he regained his balance almost instantly. But as he attacked again, Caelan was ready; she had taken the Owlrider's discarded scimitar from the ground and looked the sneering fox in the eye fearlessly.

Ley made to help her friend, but another group of vermin had come to help their captain and she and Ashleg had to turn and fight. Ashleg held his ground as best he could, trying not to move much as he fought furiously with two daggers. He knew if he tired himself out too quickly, his scarred body would cease to be any use. Ley was slowly cutting her way through the enemies, toward the main body of the fight.

Brome had no weapon, but he knew what he had to do. Caelan was locked in a death duel with the battleaxe-wielding fox, and even the healer mouse could see she wasn't used to fighting with the short, flat scimitar, whereas the fox knew exactly how to use the deadly axe to its maximum effect. Caelan needed her own sword.

The young mouse – not so young now, he thought ruefully – ducked behind a tent to make sure no vermin followed him, and tried to remember what he had seen the night they had been captured. Unlike the others, he hadn't been fully knocked out, and he had a dim memory of coming into the camp; here, they had been taken to the tent he had woken up in, and there – a rat had parted with the rest, carrying their weapons! He burst into a tent, and found what had to be the armoury. He looked through and after a moment found his own knife, Ley's bow and arrows, and the great golden broadsword that was Caelan's. He buckled on the knife, slung the bow and quiver over his shoulder, hefted the sword and ran back to the battle.

For the tattooed otter, the situation looked dire. The scimitar had been knocked from her paw by Tynos and she had only a small knife to defend herself with. As Brome ran back into the clearing, she dodged a swipe of the axe and ducked back a few paces. Tynos' face was alight with savagery, Caelan's with fury and bloodwrath.

Brome yelled, "Caelan!" and tossed the golden sword towards her. With lightning reflexes, the otter spun and caught her sword by the hilt. As the fox cut downwards, going in for the kill, she brought up her shining blade to counter his blow. The battleaxe met the golden sword, and Caelan didn't even flinch. Her sword held firm, making the axe glance off like a flimsy sheet of metal. Stunned, Tynos hesitated a second, and that moment was his downfall. Caelan swung her sword up and across in a fatal slash, and the once-unbeaten mercenary fox fell screaming to the ground. Within seconds his eyes glazed over and he lay still.

------------------------------

Urran Voh and the group of Noonvalers he led heard the noise of battle from half a league south. All those who had weapons instinctively drew them, pushing down their fear and replacing it with determination. They had not counted on the fighting starting this soon, but the plan was still sound, and they were ready.

"Quick!" Voh cried. "We must go to aid our friends!" The contingent, about three dozen strong, ran off through the undergrowth.

They were almost at the camp when a high-pitched call came from Urran's left. He stopped, startled, as a blue-clad otterbabe ran out from the trees.

"Squirrels!" squeaked the tiny creature. "Squirrels, Urravoh!"

Urran realised the little otter had to be Jegg, the Dibbun Brome and his friends had gone to find. The poor thing looked terrified. He bent down and said gently, "What squirrels, Jegg?"

"That way!" the otterbabe said, pointing out into the woodland in a north-easterly direction. Urran looked in bafflement at the mouse beside him, Yarrow, his arm healed. "What in all fates does he mean? There's no one that way; all our squirrels are at the camp!"

Yarrow shrugged helplessly. Then all the Noonvalers tensed as shouts and the clank of weaponry – quite apart from the noise of battle to their left – drifted out of the trees. Many of them made their own armaments ready.

And out of the trees came a band of squirrels, daubed in facial paints, bristling with strange bows and quivers.

------------------------------

The battle at the camp raged back and forth, never staying in the favour of one side for long. The Noonvale tribes fought with determination to protect their homes and families, and anger at the atrocities committed by the horde; the vermin battled viciously out of self-preservation and the discipline instilled into them by the Owlrider's reign of terror. The rivals were equally matched. The game was playing itself out.

------------------------------

Caelan Riversword danced death in the grip of a bloodwrath as great as that of a badger lord, wielding her golden sword to deadly precision. Vermin after vermin fell before her tattooed face, but there were always more to take their place.

------------------------------

Brome was not a warrior, but in the heat of the battle he found in himself a reserve of courage he had never known he had. Helping Ashleg, who was starting to tire on his wooden leg, he stood alongside his friend and defended him. And over the screams of creatures dying and killing, over the horrendous roar of the bloody battle, he could hear Rose's voice and her last words to him.

------------------------------

Ley was now fighting alongside her tribe, having reached the place where the two forces met. She was bleeding from a dozen cuts, but she fought on, screaming and crying at the same time. A stoat locked her in combat with two deadly-looking spikes, and she found herself remembering Ryem. Bitterness and grief fuelled her rage as she attacked the vermin furiously, not fighting the Owlrider's horde but the ghosts of her harsh past.

------------------------------

Ashleg kicked aside a dead rat and looked up. The Owlrider was still mounted on the monstrous bird that was her namesake, harassing the Noonvale forces. But as he watched, a chance arrow caught the eagle owl on the wing and it faltered badly. The Owlrider forced it to fly a little beyond the line of battle, and even before it crumpled to the ground, screaming in agony, Ashleg was already moving off to intercept his demented niece – and finish this once and for all.


	16. The Mercy

Sorry for the long wait with this, my computer died a while ago so I haven't had chance to update. Thanks to all reviewers! Look out for the last chapter, plus epilogue, coming soon.

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter Sixteen: The Mercy

"Who are you?" Urran Voh asked, staring in shock at the group of foreign-looking squirrels. He felt Jegg clinging to the hem of his leather tunic. "Are you with the vermin?"

A big, brawny squirrel stepped out from the crowd, shouldering his crooked bow and holding his paws up in a placatory gesture. He spoke in a strange accent. "I am Haem, Second Captain of the Kingdom of Ryem. My squirrels and I would sooner jump into fire than sully ourselves by allying with vermin. We come on a personal mission, one dear to my heart; we mean no harm."

Urran relaxed. "I am Chieftain Urran Voh of Noonvale. But pleasantries will have to wait – our friends are fighting a hard battle in the clearing just north of here. We have been under attack by a vermin horde for some time now."

The sinewy squirrel Haem bristled. "My platoon and I will help you and your friends, Chieftain Voh," he promised. "But quickly – I must know something. The mission I am on is a search for my sister, who was unjustly banished from Ryem some time ago. Her name is Ley. Have you by any chance seen her?"

"Ley?" Urran said. "A middle-aged squirrel called Ley is living with the squirrel clan that summers at Noonvale. But a day and a half ago she and some friends set out into the woods to search for this little fellow," he gestured to his feet, where Jegg had stopped trembling and was staring up at Haem with huge eyes. "We feared they might have been captured by the vermin."

Haem's eyes widened, and he slung down his bow, signalling to the squirrel band behind him. "Then let us go!"

------------------------------

Ashleg ran, breathing heavily, towards the place where he had last seen the Owlrider. The bloodstained dagger in his paw reminded him of seasons long gone, in Greeneyes' horde; he gripped it tightly, remembering his promise to himself that he had killed for the last time. It seemed fate had willed it not to be so. He cursed Wildvine for the evil he had caused, and wondered how on earth the same mother could have spawned both his brother and his sister.

It chilled him to think of his niece's story; how the malevolent spirit of her father had shown her Ashleg in his pain and crippled state. To think that his violent brother had been watching him from beyond the grave, tormented by hatred even past Hellgates – he didn't want to believe it, but how else could his maddened kin have the same wounds as him?

The Owlrider had not worried about concealing her trail. Ashleg followed the trampled undergrowth easily, handling his crutch carefully out of habit. He didn't know what he was going to do when he caught up with his niece, but this had to be ended, one way or another.

Soon, he heard rustling up ahead. He was close. Ashleg dragged himself on, refusing to admit he was growing tired. Soon he felt sunlight on his whiskers, and he burst out of the forest into a clearing. At the other end, tensed in a fighting stance, bloodied scimitar held at the ready, the Owlrider stood, her insane eyes boring into him.

With a scream that seemed as if it came from beyond Hellgates, she leapt to cut him down.

------------------------------

Tesey, back at Noonvale, sat shivering in her underground home. It was not cold, but the weight of other beasts' terror pressed hard on her. Every now and then, a vision of the devastation that the Owlrider might bring flashed red as blood in front of her eyes.

Then a new image assaulted her, and she shrieked as the realisation of what one outcome of this conflict might be came to her.

Hellgates would be unleashed; with the sacrifice of a shade's kin, all the spirits of the damned would break out into the world.

Tesey took up the double-ended spear she had carried in her younger days, and rushed from Noonvale, following her gift's guidance out into the forest.

------------------------------

Ashleg blocked the Owlrider's downward strike, feeling the reverberation of the two blades in his paws. Twisting out from under her scimitar, he brought round one of his scarred paws and hit out at her face; she snarled as his fist knocked her jaw a glancing blow. He tried to use the momentary pause to get in a strike of his own, but his niece anticipated it and swept her curved sword across to deter his dagger. Ashleg hissed in pain as the very edge of the scimitar nicked the skin of his neck. The face that mirrored his own creased in a wild grin.

Skilfully, the Owlrider swivelled her sword and struck upwards, forcing Ashleg to dodge from its path. A jolt of pain shot up his stump of a leg as he stepped awkwardly. The shining steel of his niece's blade filled his vision as she attacked viciously, leaving him no room for anything but defence. Ashleg wondered if his time had indeed come.

Then, without warning, there was a cry at the edge of the clearing and something thudded into the Owlrider's left leg, causing her to fall with a scream.

Ashleg staggered back and stared. "_Tesey?_" he choked out as the seer otter bounded across and, ripping the double-bladed javelin from his niece's flesh, put it at her neck to keep her down.

"I have seen what will come if she lives," Tesey told him grimly, her eyes flashing. "The Last War, Ashleg. Vermin know it as the War of Vulpuz. The dead souls of the damned, streaming out to cover the earth, to tear and kill and finish everything that was ever good. Kill her now, Ashleg of Noonvale. Kill her now."

Ashleg knew she was telling the truth. There was a ring of fact in her voice. But to kill his own niece in cold blood?

"Do it," the seer otter urged.

But before Ashleg could decide, the Owlrider opened her mouth and roared. It was not her voice. Ashleg recognised it, across the seasons and across Hellgates.

Tesey was knocked aside. Possessed by the ghost of her father, the Owlrider rose swiftly and clutched at Ashleg's neck; he felt unnatural strength beginning to crush him. He closed his eyes and fought as Wildvine's mocking voice rang in his ears.

"You are _weak_, brother! Old and deformed and weak! You cannot stop me, or my servant. The War is coming. I will _breathe_ again! I will have a body! You are nothing and you cannot stop me!"

Ashleg visualised what his brother wanted. He heard again the story of a hellish dark time that had been told on dark Kotir nights. Despair filled him; he couldn't stop his brother, so what was the point in trying?

But just as he was about to give up, something hard inside him refused to surrender. He _would not_ give in; he _would not _ give up the happiness and friends he had so recently found. That something reminded him of the warm sun in Noonvale; the dappled light on the waterfall; the glint of Caelan's sword, Brome's gentle brown eyes, Ley's pledge of allegiance to him.

"NO!" Ashleg screamed, and _shoved_ his brother from his mind and from the Owlrider's. With a supreme effort, he sent the malevolent spirit spinning back into Hell. And it was over.

------------------------------

Ley was fighting back to back with Caelan, the two of them desperately trying to stem the tide of frantic, brutal vermin. She knew, deep down, that there were too many of the horde. But she kept fighting, lashing out furiously, drenched in blood, both hers and others'.

Looking up as she pushed aside a limp stoat, Ley saw as a wave of creatures came sweeping in from the south. At their head were the mouse chieftain Voh and a war-painted squirrel.

The world shrank in on Ley as she looked on the squirrel's face. Choking, she could barely move – and suddenly the world went black as pain ripped into the back of her head.

------------------------------

The battle was over in barely ten minutes. Captain Haem's squirrels and the Noonvale contingent cut savagely into the side of the vermin, finishing off the horde for good. Only about a dozen prisoners were taken.

Caelan, exhausted from her efforts in the fight but determined, wandered over the site of the battle looking for Ley. Dead creatures from both sides lay all around and the ground was soaked with blood. Caelan felt a tear trickling from her eye, and was surprised; this was the first time she'd ever cried after a battle. But this time, it all seemed such a – waste.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of weeping not far away from her. A burly squirrel was knelt on the ground, rocking back and forth with another squirrel's limp form in his arms. She heard him moaning, "Ley… no… Ley, I'm sorry…"

As Caelan froze, horror-stricken, she saw her friend's footpaw twitch ever so slightly. Heart in her mouth, she rushed over, crying, "She's alive!"

The squirrel started and loosened his grip as Ley's body convulsed. She coughed, hacking horribly, and opened her eyes.

"Ley," Caelan choked out at the same time as the stranger squirrel.

"Who – who are you?" rasped Ley, looking up into the eyes of the squirrel cradling her. Her eyes were unfocused, the dark pupils dilating and contracting rapidly. "Where is this?"  
Caelan took a breath to answer, but a glint of panic came into her friend's eye. "_Who am I?"_

Ley watched, uncomprehending, as the male squirrel's heart broke twice – once with relief, and once with despair.

------------------------------

Ashleg slowly got up from his sprawled position on the ground. Not two yards away, the Owlrider lay on her back, shaking slightly. Ashleg looked into her eyes, and saw nothing but pain and despair; his niece knew her time had come. Without consciously knowing how, Ashleg understood that the young pine marten was dying, slowly and painfully.

She saw him looking at her and opened her mouth to speak, but only a dry rasp came out. The final possession of her father had destroyed her completely. But Ashleg knew what she wanted him to do.

His paws thrummed with the last residue of the dark power of his brother's shade. Kneeling as best he could beside his niece, Ashleg put his paws on her head and _willed _ the darkness to leave him.

His niece looked at him one last time, an inexplicable stare – and then she tensed once, and went still. Ashleg closed her eyes.


	17. The Burial

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter Seventeen: The Burial

Brome found Ashleg in a peaceful, shaded dell not far north of Noonvale, kneeling beside a mound of freshly turned earth. Realising what had happened, he kept quiet and knelt beside his friend, whose expression was sombre.

There was silence for a while, and then Brome said gently, "I know it's hardly the same, but my sister Rose died a few seasons back. I think – I think it's always hard, standing at anybeast's grave, especially if they're family."

Sharply, Ashleg glanced up at the young mouse. "Your sister died? Your sister Rose?"

Brome nodded.

"I had a sister, named Roseleaf… she died, too. When I was much younger."

Brome didn't know what to say. He put a paw on the marten's shoulder, silently reassuring. _I'm with you_.

The two creatures beside the Owlrider's burial place were quiet for a time. Then Ashleg, his eyes damp, started to speak.

"I never even _knew _ her. She was my blood, and I never knew who she was or that she even existed. I mean – I didn't get on with Wildvine, my brother, when we were kits. It didn't really surprise me that he turned out the way he did, the way I nearly turned out. But the Owlrider – his daughter – her life was wasted! Did she even have a name, damn it, Brome?" Ashleg's paws were clenched with the inexplicable grief. "She was going to kill me, but only because she'd been driven mad by the shade of my brother. I never had a chance to know her, Brome! She was the last of my blood, my family, and now she's dead."

"You have us now, Ashleg," Brome told him with the confidence he had only recently found. "Me and Caelan and Tesey, and Jegg and Ley. We'll be your family."

Ashleg looked at him, startled. Brome saw surprise and deep gratitude in his eyes. Then a frown creased the pine marten's scarred face.

"Tesey! She saved my life when I was fighting my niece. Where is she? I woke up, and she had gone!"

"She's all right," Brome told him, relieved that he could bring good news. "The battle was over an hour ago – my father met some northern squirrels and they cut the horde to pieces. Tesey's helping with the injured now. Oh, and they found Jegg."

Ashleg smiled. Turning back to the grave, he sprinkled one last pawful of earth as a mark of respect and bowed his head for a second. Then, grasping his crutch, he pulled himself to his footpaws and looked south.

"Let's go and find our friends."

------------------------------

Night had fallen on the day of victory. Back in Noonvale, the Council House was packed full of creatures in various stages of bandaging, all smiling and well fed. Caelan Riversword sat at one of the long tables, looking like a Dibbun's rag doll with the amount of cloth swathed over her many war wounds. Next to her, Brome sat with his paws propping up his tired head, proudly sporting the head gash he had received; Jegg sat between him and Ashleg, gobbling candied chestnuts with two of his little pals. Ashleg himself was simply glad to be back at the place he now knew was his home.

At the end of the House, Urran Voh clapped for silence and gradually the noise died down. The patriarch looked around gladly at the crowd of creatures, seeming to smile at each one individually. Then he began to speak.

"We sit here tonight victorious," he said. "Due to the bravery of all Noonvale's fighting creatures and allies, the horde that threatened our home has been defeated, and we are safe again."

A cheer echoed in the Council House's rafters.

"But, of course, this has been at a price. Many dear friends and comrades have been buried today. We will always remember them."

Voh paused, looking around the packed room; finally gazing into the eyes of his only son.

"Before this war started, not long ago, I thought I was wiser than most creatures. But I have found out that I was wrong. I have learnt that wisdom is not something that comes automatically with age; on the contrary, the youngest can have insight that is beyond any of my seasons, and one of my age can be completely ignorant of the things that matter in life.

'One thing I do know is that words can never make up for actions; but, futile as it may be, I pledge that Noonvale and its children will never again make the same mistake I have made, that of baseless prejudice. I hope and pray that my valley will always now be accepting of all, and denying of none. If nothing else, that is what this war has taught me."

There was silence for a reverent moment, and then the House burst into applause. Brome smiled at his father, and Ashleg closed his eyes in happiness. At last, he had found his home.


	18. Epilogue

The Ashleg Chronicles: Epilogue

Ley sat beside the Noonvale waterfall, her head in her paws. It was two seasons since the Owlrider War, and finally the squirrel had regained most of her memory. Her recovery had not been easy; although Ley could now remember nearly all of her life, she had still had to painstakingly learn to walk and talk again. But now she was whole again, a decision that had had to be put off for two seasons was staring her in the face.

Ley's memories of her former home in Ryem had come slowly. She had joyfully recognised her beloved brother Haem, and asked after her family, confused as to why they were not with her; but then the darker recollections had come back. The memories of how she had fallen madly in love with a rogue squirrel from the south, whom her father – the First Captain of Ryem – held a deep-seated grudge against. The memories of how she had freed him from prison after he had been wrongly accused of murder – only to see him shot down by the deadly archers of her native land, resulting in her disgrace and banishment.

But when she remembered, Haem had explained to her why he had come for her now. Their father had died half a season past, and now Calthe – Ley and Haem's older sister – was First Captain. Both her siblings wanted Ley to come home now that the order of her exile had been revoked.

This news should have made Ley happy. She should have gladly accepted the offer, and gone back to Ryem with her brother. But somehow she couldn't face the idea of going 'home'.

Was the kingdom she had grown up in her home anymore?

------------------------------

Caelan saw her squirrel friend hunched over by the edge of the water, and sighed. She knew most of Ley's story now, and could well imagine the terrible choice that awaited her. Unsure what she should do, she went and silently sat beside Ley.

There was a pause, and then Ley lifted her red-eyed face to look at Caelan. "Caelan, what do you think I should do? Should I go back with Haem? I don't know what to do!"

Caelan spread her paws helplessly. "You have to make the choice, Ley. I'm sorry. I can't make it for you."

"I've got so many terrible memories of Ryem," Ley said, her voice cracking slightly. "But if I don't go back now, I might never be able to see my brother and sister again!"

"Why?" asked Caelan, confused.

"I'd be renouncing my claim as a Ryemi, and outsiders are hardly ever allowed in. Even Calthe can't change that."

The otter couldn't think of anything to say. She put an arm around her friend.

A little while later, she sensed another presence behind her. Turning, she saw Ashleg standing there, leaning heavily on his crutch. He was growing more and more reliant on the well-polished stick, Caelan noticed.

Ley noticed the pine marten, and looked up, her eyes full of the question Caelan hadn't answered. Carefully, Ashleg sat down, gazing into the water.

"All I can say, Ley, is that when I die I will die among friends," he said. "Among my family. To me, that is one of the most precious things in all the world. And when you make your choice, just make sure you don't leave your family behind."

Caelan looked at Ley's reddened eyes, and saw that the squirrel had made her decision.

------------------------------

"Tell Calthe I love her," Ley said sadly as she hugged her brother tightly. The day had come for the Ryem squirrels to leave, and much to Haem's sorrow, Ley would not be going with them.

"I will," he said, his eyes bright with tears. His sister kissed his cheek gently.

"Second Captain Haem," she said fondly, her own eyes starting to well up. "Be a good one, my brother. Turn Ryem into a better place than our father made it."

"Do you want me to put up a memorial for – for…"

"Ramery," Ley choked, smiling through her tears. "His name was Ramery, and I loved him. Please do that, Haem. Please."

"I'll miss you, Ley. Both of us will see you again, someday." Haem gave her one last hug, then turned away, his war-tattoos shining in the morning sun. Ley stayed beside the Noonvale monolith, and waved until she could see him no longer.

------------------------------

Caelan, Brome, Ley and Ashleg sat together later that evening, in the little secluded place that Ashleg was beginning to make his garden. The sun was going down, and all of Noonvale was bathed in gentle orange light; overhead, in the eastern sky, the first few stars twinkled in a rapidly darkening navy canopy. The heady scent of lavender floated around the four friends and a few moths batted from the lantern outside Ashleg's hut to the garden plants.

Brome sipped from the pottery mug he held, enjoying the sweet taste of the honey-tea. "It's a lovely evening," he commented. The others murmured assent. Ashleg leant his chin on the smooth top of his crutch, gazing contentedly at the fiery glory of the sunset.

"We've been through a lot, these past seasons, haven't we?" said Caelan thoughtfully, thinking back over the events of and after the attack of the Owlrider.

"A lot," Ashleg agreed, looking away from the sun with spots dancing in front of his eyes. "But for me, I feel – well, it's all been worth it."

Ley sighed, but nodded. "I think I'll be happier here than I would have been, in Ryem."

"Even without your brother and sister?" Brome asked, looking at the squirrel gravely.

"Well" Ley looked wryly at Ashleg "Calthe and Haem were my first family. They'll always be my family, nothing can change that. But not many creatures would have taken me in when I was just out of Ryem, like the Noonvale squirrels did. So I guess I've found a kind of extended family, here."

The pine marten smiled happily. "So have I. So have I."

**THE END**


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